Seven Year Hitch
by R J Lupin's Kat
Summary: Because sometimes love just isn't enough...
1. Ch1: If You Love SomethingSet It Free

**Disclaimer: **If Mary Shannon and Marshall Mann belonged to me, we'd definitely have a few other directions going by this point.

**Author's Note: **This concept had been floating about in my head for weeks now, and after seeing last week's 'Death Becomes Her' and the relationship progression / digression of Mary and Marshall, I just felt it had to be begun. Expect some drama, some humor, a fair bit of angst, and… well, you get the picture. The ending I've got, the gist, too. I'm just not totally sure where it's going to go in the meantime.

Short first chapter.

_Reviews are greatly appreciated._

**Seven Year Hitch **

**-o-o-0-o-o-**

**Chapter 1: If You Love Something… Set It Free**

_Albuquerque, Present Day_

"It has a 2.4-liter DOHC four-cylinder engine, producing 173 bhp and 144 pounds per foot of torque. Straight six, dual exhaust, with five-speed automatic, wheelbase of twenty-six fifty; 17-inch alloy wheels wrapped in 215/45 R17 premiums."

"Meaning?"

He glanced down at her without moving, face impassive. "Meaning… it'll do." Gaze returned to straight ahead, falling somewhere over the distant horizon of desert and sage.

Mary frowned. Marshall's response, though forthcoming with specifications on the potential buy before them, was offered with a dry, encyclopedic delivery unlike himself. No animation, no cajoling over environmental features, no proffered comparison to other options on the lot. Just… a direct answer. No more, no less.

Directing her attention back to the titanium gray 2009 Kia Forte Koup before her, a trade-in Peter still had on the lot rather than having taken to auction, Inspector Marshal Mary Shannon considered her situation. The '65 Mustang was just a loner, after all, and certainly not practical in her line of work. Though the vehicle before her was an attractive consideration, she couldn't help but mourn the loss of her old Probe. It was her, after all. Persevering, invasive, scarred history…

"Okay, Mr. I-have-a-scientifically-based-opinion-on-everything, what should I get? What says 'me'?" she asked

"It's your choice," he answered flatly. "It's always been your choice." His voice had taken on a melancholy feel, too short-lived for her to take notice. Not that she would have, her focus still on her own contemplations. Then a murmured, "I can't help you make it; I never could."

But Mary failed to hear him, continuing on the Versus theme. "The Mustang's impractical and a shit load of money, but _Jesus_, it's fun to drive." She hesitated, walked a wide-eyed inspection about the Koup again, weighing options repeatedly before returning next to her partner.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually miss the Probe. It was something I knew, you know? No second-guessing, no surprises around the corner. If she acted up, I knew what to expect, even if it was fucked up beyond repair. But there's something to be said for that kind of familiarity, right?" A quick glance at the following silence reassured her Marshall was still there, but obvious distraction kept him mute.

Slightly irritated by his inattention, she went on. "I mean, this is nice – really nice – and all, but couldn't I just hire someone to throw another engine in the Probe so I can just go on with my life, without having to change yet another damn thing? I mean, who needs double-digit gas mileage, anyway?" Gestures of arms tossed about in exasperation, paces here and there, groans. "I just want my car back," she whinged. When Marshall remained silent, she snapped.

"What, no dissertation of psychoanalyzing mumbo-jumbo? No comparisons of how my Probe was representational of my falling down, piece of shit life hanging together with duct tape and the Force?" A verbal poke, a jab; something to egg a reaction out of him. It was unsettling for Marshall to be so… un-Marshall.

"Mary… no matter how much you may want/desire/long for something, sometimes… you just can't… _have it." _Studiously avoiding eye contact. Or view of her. Jaw tight. In concentration? In annoyance? "So… you have to resign yourself to that knowledge and consciously allow yourself to move into the next phase of your search if you hope to ever reach any modicum of contentment, and readjust your expectations in said level of cheer to accept what is poorly named 'second best' – even if it is a _distant _second best – rather than lose out on all chance of happiness."

Here he paused; a slight shift in mood, definitely underlying agitation. Finally he faced slightly toward her, not meeting her eyes. "Listen, I have to go," came his abrupt statement, his posture growing animated. "I've a meeting," he explained to the ground, and he turned swiftly in escape. "See you tomorrow." With that, he took leave, not once looking back.

Mary could only stare after him, baffled.

**-o-**

Ground-eating strides could not carry Inspector Marshal Marshall Mann from the car lot fast enough. Breaking into a jog might be a tad conspicuous, and above all else he wanted to avoid drawing attention to himself. So he contented himself with his own version of speed walking, concentrating on breathing, clearing of mind, focus of intent. Reaching his GMC, he slowed only long enough to unlock, settle, belt-in, and ignite the engine before he was running ten over on the highway.

He'd told her he had a meeting, and he did – sort of. But Marshall still had things to do at the office, and by duty and habit found himself at the Sunshine Building less than a quarter hour later. Mary would be a while at Alpert Autoplex, giving him time to conclude business and be gone should she decide to return tonight. He couldn't be near her right now.

Office bare of staff and inspectors, Marshall exhaled a relieved sigh, forcing effort to calm himself. Now was not the time to dwell on the conclusion his logical mind had drawn earlier today, the same intent his philosophical heart had violently mutinied over. He would need time, days perhaps, to ruminate. But in the end, he knew it was for the best and would resolve to accept the inevitable decision.

Twelve minutes later, only a last check of his e-mail held him to task before heading out for the night. _Delete. Delete. Delete. Save as Unread. Delete. Delete._

Then the message from this morning. At 5:46, when he'd ventured in early to catch up on paperwork. The one that had blindsided him, engaged him down a rollercoaster path of epiphany and self-honesty.

It wasn't something new; he'd read ones like this far too many times over the years, and each time a solemn pang of poignant grief settled in him. But this time, a chord struck with a jarring jerk, and Marshall had been thrown off his mental feet to thoughts he'd painstakingly ignored for years.

_State Trooper Anthony Vinecci  
Nevada State Police__**  
Nevada**__  
__**End of Watch**__: Tuesday, April 20, 2010_

_Biographical Information  
__**Age:**__ 42  
__**Tour of Duty:**__ 11 years  
__**Badge Number:**__ 7218_

_Incident Details  
__**Cause of Death:**__ Gunfire  
__**Date of Incident:**__ Sunday, April 18, 2010  
__**Weapon Used:**__ .357 Magnum Revolver  
__**Suspect Info:**__ Escaped_

_State Trooper Anthony Vinecci was shot during a vehicle stop, later succumbing to his wounds._

Marshall skimmed the paragraphed details, eyes arresting at the same place as this morning…

_Trooper Vinecci is survived by his parents in Vermont and two older brothers._

Survived by his parents and siblings. No wife to mourn his passing. No children to recreate his image and pass along to the world the fact he had ever been there. No one to understand when they cleared out his effects what the scribbled notes on his fridge stood for, or the significance of the faded lavender ribbon tied to the neck of his worn acoustic guitar.

It had hit Marshall then, hit him in a way conveniently forgotten over the past few years. His sights and heart so irrevocably set on perfection… but perfection was proving unattainable. And he wasn't getting any younger; his career wasn't getting any safer.

A traffic stop. Vinecci had simply pulled a guy over for expired tags. No warning. There was no such thing as a routine traffic stop, and anything could happen at any time. To any of them.

A witness would call him, suicidal over the crushing weight of losing an entire identity, a lifetime. One flinch in error, a haphazard handling of a gun in an inexperienced civilian's hand…

Who would mourn his passing? What would he even leave behind? A collection of oddities and curiosities, snippets of cultures and facts and feelings. Reflections of a life full of curiosity and generosity, a sensitivity to the world around him. A lifetime of knowledge, of learning.

But who would know the truth about his origami cranes, and the significance of the Judo Smurf atop his home PC?

He was in love with Mary. Desperately, completely. Intertwined. But his best friend did not return the sentiment, and Marshall had deluded himself long enough. He could continue pining, giving in to fleeting half-hearted flings, biding time for her to realize his place in her heart. Or… he could stop lying to himself. Stop fooling himself into believing she would one day love him in return.

It had been seven years ago this summer when they'd met. A feeling had stirred in him by the time his witnesses had settled into Albuquerque. He'd seen a spark in her that screamed depth and talent, and he'd shared his instinct with Stan. It was another two years before she'd made the change, turned WitSec Inspector, and later was assigned to his territory. Nobody else would work with her, he'd heard, but that had been okay with him; he would. Another two years, and their friendship had established, grown, deepened. Then one day he had glanced over at her as she holstered her weapon, only their frightened witness cowering in the darkened corner of the warehouse office. Rare words of comfort had crossed her lips, concern etched in her features. It was then he suddenly realized he loved her.

He was 41 years old, now. And alone. And it could be him on that notice. Another name, another salute and half-mast flag, nothing left but his badge to mark his passage through this world.

She would never requite his feelings for her. It was time he set her free. It was time he moved on. With life. The loss of a dream, one so close as to be tangible, yet just on the fringes of reality… it was a strange pain that coursed through him with the acknowledgement. He was giving up on his own personal Heaven. Growing up, perhaps. Or growing old. Or simply… withering.

Second-best – even a _distant_ second best – was better than nothing. Right? He had to believe it was.

For his own sake.

Marshall logged out, powered off the monitor, and left the building. He had a meeting. It was time he set _himself_ free.


	2. Ch 2: Journey of a Thousand Miles

**Disclaimer: **If Mary and Marshall and company belonged to me, there would be a vast sight more interaction between them, and Mary's snark would be abruptly dropped a peg or two by her ever-effective partner.

**Author's Note: **Another shorter chapter. Those familiar with my HP stories, it's a novel idea. Looks as though my IPS construct leans toward briefer forays, though perhaps greater in quantity and frequency. Also, this one jumps around a bit; it's all to set the base for the story.

Delay due to being fictionally hijacked by Mary_Marshall Anniversary Commentfic Week (and a half).

If you would like a reply to your review, please ensure PMs are allowed on your account. If not, that's fine, too. ;~)

Reviews are greatly appreciated.

**-o-o-0-o-o-**

**Chapter 2: Journey of a Thousand Miles**

_Same time, same place, Friday?_

Marshall stared thoughtfully at the e-mail message, having ignored it for several days. Today was Friday; perhaps he ought to answer.

_Please. _SEND.

Succinct; polite. It was the best he could do at the moment.

"Hey, Alter Boy…" The message wasn't the only thing he'd avoided the past three days. Marshall slid a smirked look across his desk. Mary was poised with bouncy ball in hand, ready to command his attention if need be. Little did she realize how much focus it took _not_ to attend her.

"You genuflected?" Brows raised in query. Just enough flexion in his voice to keep it lighthearted. If he blocked that three-day all-consuming 'life's decision' from his brain, he could just about pull off normal. Denial was bliss.

"Yeah. Where were you just now?" She was slightly cross, but Marshall could hear worry smuggled in there, too. "Called you three times. What, didn't register?"

Now she was gaining on the side of annoyed; home territory.

"Concentrating," he answered blandly. "You should try it some time."

"Yeah, whatever," she quickly dismissed. "Listen, you got our Threat Assessment done on Greg Cheney?"

For several minutes they discussed the Cheney case, Marshall bringing the paperwork to Mary, but forcing himself to keep some physical distance between them. No leaning over her shoulder, hand on the back of her chair, breathing in her unique scent. It was hard, this giving her up. They would still remain friends, best and perhaps only-friends, but like a sugary addition to a diabetic, he knew loving her would only kill him in the end. A slow, torturous death from unresolved want.

He'd thought seriously the last few days of telling her, confessing his feelings blatantly and letting the chips fall where they may. The difficulty in that would be the fallout should she take a stance of feeling betrayed by him, of him becoming just another man wanting something from her. Cornering her. Or, worse yet, her rejection of him and the constant underlying discomfort she would feel over their friendship. Their partnership was based on a solid, deep level of trust and synchronization. An outright admittance of his feelings in a way she could not misconstrue or ignore upset that balance. Yes, he'd considered just telling her, and letting her put his will-always-wonder in its place, but –

"God, Doofus, it's a miracle _any_ woman finds you _attractive_." Her acerbic comment broke his inner musings. "You look like a priest in that shirt. A _nerdy_ priest."

– no.

Falling back on habit and instinct, Marshall's head tilted with a tight, sarcastic "_Heh_,"

Before she could follow through with further insult, Stan rounded the corner from the conference room, a file in hand.

"Inspectors?"

It wasn't really a question, more a command, and Marshall was only too glad for the distraction. He was in the room and seated before Mary even made it around her desk.

**-o-**

Jackie "Bulldog" Martin had the appearance of his now-former life. A weightlifter's build with a face that said he'd lived hard. Cropped, gray-white hair and Fu Manchu, light blue eyes steely with life's experiences, surrounded by weathered skin of premature wrinkles. But what surprised Marshall was the sad smile in those eyes; they weren't eyes of a killer, of a hater, and briefly he wondered how this 47-year-old Delewarean had found his way into the vicious biker gang, the Fulton Six.

"But when they started fucking around with this Drover dude – really just a kid, for Christ's sake – I just–" Jackie stopped suddenly, flustered and pained, a different sort of anger blending with frustration and incomprehension. Drawing a ragged but deep breath, his eyes flashed about before settling back on the three marshals. Fingers raked roughly through semi-spiked tresses.

"Then the girls…" he added, softer now, eyes set unseeing upon the conference table. The trail-off spoke volumes to his inner turmoil; this biker wasn't an outlaw, Marshall was sure.

"And that's why you're here." Stan's ever-parental style brought out the sense of protection from every child, young or old. So many questions and what-ifs lurked in the minds of those who chose to speak up, to deliver others from the evil that dwelt around them. And it was Stan's solid, knowing structure that lifted the boogeyman from a witness' heart, comforted him or her that the right thing was being done, and all would work out as it should.

Sometimes Marshall needed that reassurance, himself. That he was doing the right thing. Not just with Mary (but God, that was a big one), but with, well, his life. Everything. Did he make the right choice going into the Marshals' Service? Yes, he believed so. But beyond that…

"It's a chance to start over, Jackie. To learn from your experiences but not be labeled by them." Mary's voice was compassion wrapped in tough love. Marshall smiled wanly, recalling her initial introduction to WitSec, and just how far she'd come. His instincts had been right all along.

She continued, suggesting to him the directions he could take his life, the opportunities out there for someone of his unique background. Stan alternated with her, filling in options the USMS could offer in ways of a string pulled here or there to help him integrate into legitimacy. But mostly Mary held the biker's attention, threatening him without the harshness of her words meeting her eyes, and Jackie was enthralled. Not in a sexual manner. No, she held him rapt with a force that was just Mary; a charisma neither smooth nor inviting. But intoxicating. Marshall could not blame him.

It was several minutes before Marshall realized Stan was giving him an odd look from across the table. Suddenly self-conscious, Marshall straightened inperceptively, brows knitting slightly in silent, still effort to figure out what of himself was amiss.

Then he understood; how unlike Marshall to remain nearly mute an entire witness indoctrination. Stan must think him ill.

Covert glance at his boss… no; Stan sees not illness, but distraction. Just great. The last thing Marshall needs now is Dad fussing over him, playing amateur psychologist. A restrained snort came out a tight choke, and Mary's explanation drew abruptly short as she turned to him, an annoyed 'what the hell?' look marring the sun-kissed features glaring at him over her shoulder. Long pause, then she turned back, his interruption obviously displeasing but not insurmountable. Stan's own face had now contorted into disbelieving curiosity.

A seat shuffle and nearly noiseless throat clearing had Marshall fully attentive again to his surroundings and, more importantly, to the task at hand. Fanciful ponderings could only get him in trouble at this point.

"Any further questions, Mr. Mason?" Stan inquired, reminding Jackie in subtle fashion his new identity. Jackie didn't fall prey to the momentary confusion most newly inducted witnesses experienced the first few times their alias was used. Instead, he seemed to have already embraced this new life that began today with signatures of old, and monikers of new.

"No, sir; I think I'm ready for a change."

"Then let's get you started on your way." Rising, Stan shook Jackie's hand then turned to Mary and Marshall. "Inspectors." Nothing else needed said.

They filed out the conference room silently, each swimming in his own thoughts.

**-o-**

Casting a side glance to her left, Mary took in the shadowed expression of her partner. His driving was automatic; his focus was somewhere else. And really, she thought back, _had been_ somewhere else for several days. He'd been distracted Tuesday evening at Peter's car lot, oddly reticent every day since; she'd barely seen him in the intervening hours. It was like he wasn't quite _there_, not _with_ her. It was a little distressing. Mary didn't like being distressed.

"Hey." Her tone said concern, at least to her ears, so she could not understand quite why it took four tries to gain a response from him. Briefly she wondered if his hearing was failing.

"Hmm?" he replied, finally looking to her with inquisitive brows then back to the road. He'd not said much at the motel where they were stashing Jackie until more suitable and permanent arrangements could be made. The biker's conflicting softness of voice and Marshall's direct answer from far across the room had been nearly his entire verbal contribution. Come to think of it, it also negated her auditory degeneration theory.

Vague responses had never worked for her. She tried again, deciding to give benefit to the doubt that he may actually have something on his mind. Something to do with her.

"You've been awfully silent today," she began, hoping for his normal litany of exposition to relieve this strange, hovering anxiety that had formed in her gut. She didn't like anxiety, either. Not from Marshall.

"Mmm."

_Ah_. That was it. He was pissed at her. Well, then… she would ferret out what phrase or action had been so thoroughly despised, make pithy and well-placed apologies for it (or rather, tell him to suck it up and go on), and then all would be well. Thinking back, not much stood out from the past week. Perhaps…

"Oh, I get it… it's about that e-mail, isn't it?" Nodding her head sagely, Mary knew she'd hit upon something when Marshall started with a jerk, eyes flashing to her with alarm before straightening again. Ooh… she'd touched a nerve.

"What… e-mail?" Did she detect a note of tension? Rather than aggravation? Moment of confusion raked through her brain, and Mary suddenly questioned if she were even at the same ballpark as Marshall. _Damn __Raph and his stupid baseball images._

"The one where I trashed down every geekdom hobby you have," she answered haltingly, as though speaking to a child slow on the uptake. "_Hello?_" A moment of consideration. "Well, the top twelve, at least," she amended with a toss of her head. "Unless…."

Here she paused in thought, index finger worrying her bottom lip. Feeling the truth had finally dawned, "_I see_… Yep, it's not the Top Twelve Nerd Files Analysis; it's the Why Marshall's Name Is On the Bathroom Wall at Shytown Boys Club, right? I knew it; reason number five hit too close to home and now you're pissed at me.

"Fine, fine, fine. I'm sorry. I apologize that I hurt your sissy little feelings. All right?"

Color had flowed back into his face, leaving Mary to suddenly question its absence before. Hands unclenched on the steering wheel. But his look, if anything, seemed merely passively annoyed.

Slow, deep sigh. "Mary, I treated those messages like I do _every_ communiqué of similar nature you pawn upon me." Her glower was met with dry smirk.

"Tweak the phrasing and post it on Demotivators dot com. Six more entries and they'll make me a partner in the advertising royalties."

"Asshole." And she turned back to gaze out the window, silently questioning why she even seemed to give a damn.

-o-

It was easy to forget for a moment, dropping effortlessly into the comfortable and pleasant role of half an Abbott and Costello routine, though Mary was more Elvis than Lou. But he checked himself, just slightly; it wouldn't do to lose his self-promise, and his resolve tightened as he kept a slight emotional distance from the blonde hurricane, even as he quipped a reply.

He was startled, then, when she abruptly changed tactics.

"So what's wrong?"

This time she went the direct route, which for Mary was typically par, except when dealing with possibly emotional issues. After all, she generally didn't want to get caught up in the mess that was other people's lives and feelings. She had enough familial drama to remake _Les Miserables_.

The fact Mary had resorted to her open-ended question gave Marshall pause.

He searched his mind for some reply that avoided the truth, yet… Marshall didn't want to lie to Mary, either. He never wanted to lie to her. Avoiding the heart of the matter was one thing – actually a merciful measure to both of them. But never could he sleep with a lie between them. Trust could be a fragile thing, yet the greatest strength of bond between two people. With their relationship, their partnership, it was everything.

"Got a lot on my mind," he finally settled upon, sticking to the truth but not the heart. When he said nothing more, she ventured in, this time strangely solemn.

"You look tired. You sleeping all right?" Concern was genuine, he could tell, and it nearly broke his heart. The situation had to be lightened, or he was going to confess things best left to a priest.

A wry, efforted grin pulled at his lips even as he stared at the stoplight they'd met. "You do know, don't you… there _ain't_ no rest for the wicked." Normalcy, he reminded himself. Just try.

"_What?_" Baffled. Good. It made change of subject ten times easier.

"Cage the Elephant."

"What elephant?"

Bark of a laugh, closest he'd come in days to real humor. "Forget it," he sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes.

"Idiot."

**-o-0-o-**

He had chosen the little diner on the outskirts of town for its anonymity. He didn't need to be recognized, didn't need for his actions to be noted or spread around. There was a certain peace in the routine hustle-bustle of different lives meshing. Truck drivers taking advantage of the spacey flat lot just off I-40, weary travelers ready for a hot, homestyle meal, occasional commuter stopping in for a call-in takeout for a family movie night at home.

Marshall sighed wearily. Some men fantasized daily of Victoria's Secret models dousing them down in exotic oils and private shiatsu massages. Or of adventurous careers, the exciting and romanticized lives of space explorers, professional athletes, film stars, federal law enforcement. Or possibly they wasted their gridlock hours dreaming of Katrina, the au pair next door, or of stumbling upon the next great invention and finding wealth and prestige. Even snippets of a vision that included schemes to get back their glory days, twenty-seven years after the fact.

Leaning his head heavily against the cool picture window, he stared unseeing out across the brittle desert, letting his own violently active mind settle, calm and wander. As it was wont to do, the dream never changed basis, only location, activity, time, perhaps. But always the same. Marshall Mann, a prestigious and exciting United States Marshal with secret, undercover and double lives, fantasized of only one thing these many years.

Her. And their family.

Seven years. They'd known each other seven years. It was a relationship of trust, of a strange balancing act of reading the other, of complimentary beings. She was in want of an opponent who knew when to let her win, when to challenge her, when to let her cry on his shoulder. And he was that object of affiliation and translation with the outer world, a role he both relished and agonized over.

Seven years he'd had in which to study and understand her, and he thought he did. Seven years she had had the opportunity to do the same of him, and… she didn't quite. Only once did he know – once that didn't involve his possible demise, that is – when she was in his corner, fighting _for_ him rather than with him. Maybe that should have clued him in, he thought humorously. On a deeper level, it wasn't as balanced a relationship as it should have been.

Seven years, and their friendship and symbiotic connection had grown, matured, developed. Enveloped. Until now. They had hit a snag, a hitch. And it was unraveling him, faster than he could re-stitch the fabric of his being.

He wondered in self-deprecation just how lame and pitiful he would sound, laying all that out on the table for review. No man he knew would rub his jaw with a knowing narrowing of eye, nod twice in thought, and agree that his was the real dream of all. No; they'd look at him as though he were daft and question his masculinity. Hah. Not like she hadn't done that a hundred million times before.

But the truth was, that was his fantasy. Whilst the truckers and commuters and waylaid grinders in the place desired action and guns and lace and lithe bodies, Marshall longed with a hunger so acute as to be painful… a life – as the seconds of time ticked by – lost further and further from his grasp. He envied those dropping in just for a meal that didn't have to be cooked, to be shared in front of the television with a movie rental, or the dining room table cleared of homework and housework for a silly board game missing several pieces.

Marshall had a house. But he wanted a home. He had women in his life, transient though they may be. But he wanted only one. He had his freedom. But he wanted to be tied down with hands sticky with uncooked macaroni and flour paste mosaics, and foot rubs of ankles swollen from a third trimester.

It was beyond time to do something about all that, to find some sense of peace and true contentment in his life. His first choice fantasy was just that – a fantasy. But sometimes second-best could be pretty damn good, if he allowed it. He needed to get on with his life. And that is why as the sun disappeared behind the fabled horizon, Marshall found himself again in a faded vinyl booth, watching the doorway. Waiting. Anxiously.

His half smile came naturally with her appearance; she knew exactly where he would be seated, and walked efficiently to him, happiness radiating from her smile. Marshall rose with an affectionate greeting.

"Marshall," she welcomed, holding his hands tightly in pleasure. "It's good to see you again."

Marshall forced his smile to broaden, took a deep breath…

"Hello, Shelley."


	3. Ch 3: Begins with a Single Step

**Disclaimer:**Please; were they mine to truly play with, we'd already have fourth season locked in with serious 'discussions' happening. Just sayin'.

**Author's Note: **I've given in to the inescapable path that my chapters will not be nearly as long as I am used to doing. However, this does me quicker updates. Also, a little disjointed, but we're still laying some groundwork.

_**As always, r**__**eviews are most appreciated**_.

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 3: Begins with a Single Step**

The color-washed moon hung low on the navy horizon, laboring in its climbing journey. Utensils and dishware _clinked_ and _clanged_ as a sole server cleared remnants of refreshment and soul-searching from Formica and steel. Marshall fidgeted with his glass, condensation rolling in rivulets over fingertips lethargic with weariness. Shelley leaned on the table across from him, and without looking he knew her expression to be one of mingled compassion and pity. The former he could deal with; the latter his eyes refused to meet.

"Marshall…" Words hung in the empty air, reflective of the room at large. They would need to leave soon. It was closing time.

"I've given it some thought, some real thought, since Tuesday," she continued. He focused on the water rings.

"First off, I'm here as your friend, not a department psychologist," she went on softly. "Or any psychologist." There was a pleading in her voice that he understand the difference. Of course he did. But still.

"As you once told me, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Well, your first step was your decision, and then calling me. That put it out in the open, made it real, and you couldn't just change your mind. There's some accountability for that choice now."

"It was a choice to move on with my life, Shelley," he sighed with some irritably, "not commending my soul to the priesthood." Her words hit too close to his own inward admission; it was Dante's first level – Limbo – to which he was committing himself. Without a quick escape plan. She was right; he'd had to draw another person into his decision to force himself to keep it. Shelley tried to clarify her comments.

"I'm not here to judge you or report on you or decide if you're capable of doing your job. But your confidence will still be kept, one friend to another. I want to help you, and after a lot of consideration, I have to say I think you're doing the right thing." He winced. She caught it. "I know that's not what you want to hear, but Marshall, this whole not-quite-complete relationship with Mary…" Trailing off, they both knew the unspoken.

"So, what should I do?" he asked slowly, resignation heavy in his voice. Eyes to her hands, now.

"Find yourself, Marshall. Find out who you are outside of Mary." Again, he could note the tenderness in her voice, and rather than the professional compassion, her tone had an earnestness of true longing to help. Not trusting a throat closing with that image of sans Mary, he merely nodded. She expounded further.

"You've always been one to do things with your time, to grow and explore. Continue that. Exercise - endorphins are good."

"I've been meaning to increase my activity regimen," he supplied dryly, foregoing telling her the already additional miles he'd run and heavy bag punches he'd thrown out of blatant sexual frustration and emotional torment brought on by his partner. Why add fuel to the analysis fire?

But Shelley wasn't finished, and as she grew on a roll, Marshall realized how out of balance his life had actually become; the surprise was disheartening.

"Reconnect with people, Marshall. Not those in your job, but those out in the world. Open yourself up to women who are fully available to you, let them meet you. Yes, you've had women, dated them, but you put no real effort into knowing them because in the back of your mind, you're always holding onto Mary, wanting _her_, not even bothering to compare them to her, just simply knowing she is Choice One, first and foremost, and so far ahead of everyone else… Approach possible dates with a fully cleansed palate, and look at them as matches, not as 'good for the time being until Mary wakes up and becomes your life's fulfillment.' Refrain from seconding-placing them from the get-go and let them stand alone in their pursuit of you."

His half snort at the incomprehensible thought of doing just that was cut short by Wagner emitting from Shelley's handbag. With a quick apology she answered the text, inquisitive of face then fingers flying her replies. Chancing a look, Marshall watched with a twinge of pain her animated face, glowing in happiness.

"Sorry about that," she offered contritely while flipping the clamshell closed and depositing it once again in the leather bag. "Paul's got the caterer on the other line and…"

"It's all right," he immediately cut off. His smile was true if not buoyant. "You go talk reception details with Paul. I need to get home, anyway. I'm beat." When her eyes questioned him, he said, "I'll be fine." Rising with her, he pulled a twenty from his pocket and grabbed up the ticket, following to the register. As he waited for the cashier, she paused her departure, giving him a long, assessing look.

"Yeah, I think you _will_ be fine, Marshall," she said quietly. Nearly inaudible. "Someday." Louder, "Same time next Friday?" she asked, hope tingeing the question.

"Shelley, I appreciate it, really, but you've got a wedding next Sunday – your wedding. I don't think you need to be out 'fixing me' two days before your big day." Self-deprecating half-grin reminisced his old soul personality.

"Fixing you, no. But dinner with a friend is always a wonderful way to spend an evening." The caress on his shoulder and upper arm reminded him that yes, there were caring people in his life, even if he felt so very singular at times.

"Meet you here next Friday, then, no argument." Halfway to the door she called back, "Remember what I said. Find out who _you_ are." And with a smile she disappeared in the chilly desert night.

Handing over the ticket and bill for payment, Marshall glanced back into the darkness, the OPEN sign still swishing on the door in her wake. Recalling her distinction earlier, an unbidden answer fell in murmurs from his lips.

"What if I'm _no one_ without her?"

**-o-0-o-**

_Three months later…_

"And for the nice little kiddies, we have sustenance."

Suspicious though she was, Mary was never one to turn down free food. With narrowed eyes, she accepted her own frou-frou coffee from Marshall's cardboard carrying tray as Stan relieved his Inspector of a plain white pastry bag. She took a cautious sip, eyes leaving her partner only long enough to nab the bag from Stan, pulling from it the remaining cinnamon roll. Hot, glaze melting, thinly sliced almonds atop. Heaven.

"Thank you, Marshall," Stan greeted. "You're a good man." Spotting Mary's scowl at his praise, he excused himself immediately on the basis of 'something important to finish' in his office.

"So what's the occasion, moneybags?" she asked around a huge bite of the roll. "Twice in one week. What gives?"

"Ah, Mary, ever the cynic," he answered lightly, biting prestigiously into a cream cheese Danish as he sat and logged on his computer one-handed. How the hell did he do that? How could he make eating an artistic manner? He gestured an encompassing sweep toward the windows as he chewed appreciatively, eyes wide in amusement. "It's a beautiful day, Mary. Just under ninety degrees Fahrenheit, lack of substantial humidity, the birds are singing..."

"Ah. Must have gotten some last night," she quipped, though found herself disbelieving that assumption even as she spoke. It was, after all, Marshall who she was referring to. Or to whom she was referring. Or… God, he had to get out of her head; he was rubbing off on her.

The sigh and roll of the eyes was long-suffering, but his mood bounced back immediately. "And I have the rare and distinctive honor and pleasure of coming here every day, to perform what is truly a life's calling. With _you_." The last dripped of amused sarcasm, highlighted with a cut of his eyes before they returned to his screen.

"And don't forget it." Sucking her fingers clear of the gooey remnants of the roll, she caught Marshall's disapproving face. Jaw tight, the glare. She peered upward in exasperation and sighed heavily. "Really, Marshall, you could've gotten napkins," she defended. Never mind that she could have walked the fifteen feet to the kitchenette; it was the principle of the matter.

**-o-**

Marshall inhaled slowly. Ever. So. Slowly. Eyes closed. Forced his jaw to relax. Exhale. God in Heaven, why was he being punished?

Things had been going so well. He'd made such progress. Their repartee was near normal these days, nearly relaxed as it had been for these many years. Working together had once again become natural and flowing, their friendship taking the dominate lead, their rapport at ease, give and take. Then he had to hear her, had to glance up to see her. Had to witness her… Sucking. Her. Fingers. With that expression of pure ecstasy on her face. And his gut had tightened instantly in a way no force but real fear of death could have struck him. Or plunging through the ice on a Michigan lake in January. He could have used that frigid water right about now.

Denial and decisions and all that jazz. It was good on paper, in theory. But the human make up was more than the mind, no matter how much he would often choose it to at least be fully _ruled_ by the cerebral. Most unfortunately, the heart didn't take orders from the cerebral cortex, nor did the delicate biochemistry of a person alter because one's conscience told it to do. And Marshall's body could only repress its far too deep desire for the woman across from him for just so long. Unbidden, unwanted, the immediate flame of wrenching need had caught him unaware and unprepared.

He really, really had been doing _so well_.

If only he could convince his subconscious that she was no longer attractive to him. Yes. He could step back and appreciate her physically, could step in as her best and only friend, and could be – would be – completely and utterly satisfied with that role. But traitorous flesh and chemistry and pheromones conspired, the universe aided and abetted, and Karma had masterminded his psychological downfall.

He wanted to cry.

Okay. Breathe… Breathe… _Inhale_…. Slooowly exhale. Good. All right, then. Everything was good, he was fine. Just a lingering gut reaction. After all, it _had_ been a while. Just hormones kicking in. If any attractive woman had done the same thing, he would have responded. Granted, probably not quite as drastically, but there were basic biochemical chain reactions at work. It was biology, pure and simple. And he had moved on. Most definitely.

Gaining some semblance of clarity, Marshall scanned through his appointment calendar, noting a check-up later this afternoon with his witness – their witness – Jackie Mason. Well then, that was a good point to his day. He liked Jackie, had a good feeling about him. And the man had definitely made an effort to use his fresh start as a positive move in life. Successful new beginnings were a rare treat; one to be amazed by and fully appreciated.

How well he knew.

**-o-**

Bolero Downs Race Course had once been little more than a fairgrounds circuit track, complete with cotton candy and half-sized Ferris Wheel, carnies and empty milk bottle pyramids. But economy spurts and downturns had trimmed the fair circuits, while encouraging more settled-down-to-business ventures, and the tent and hardwood-framed bleachers of the grandstand eventually formed into a 220-acre concrete and adobe plant. Shadowy spotlight night racing with starts from a rope strung across the track had evolved into safety rails, sandy-loam surface and electronic starting gate. It had grown, found its niche, and in its quiet way had survived. Thrived.

Mary squinted against harsh sunlight reflections, a thin film of unease coating her each step closer they came to the main entrance. Already a cornucopia of drunken calls of advice and critiquing of jockeys' abilities hung heavily in the air, reminding her of good times long gone. Good times that were, in the light of adulthood, not.

Air conditioning assailed them like a welcomed whore, and Mary forgave the clubhouse crowd their manners for the breathe-ability of the air.

"C'mon six! C'mon six! Move your ass, six!" Hand slap between phrases.

"Let'im out, Lupe! Let'im out!" Snaps between this one.

Today was simulcasting only; racing watched by the masses on racks of flat screens lining walls and drop-down sections of ceiling. Tomorrow night would be live, the horses running in the evening to battle New Mexico's hellacious summer heat.

"Well, this brings back memories." Mary's slightly annoyed face slid back to Marshall, her partner glancing around in amused interest.

"Ah, the Sport of Kings. Did you know, though a popular betting favorite of novice gamblers, gray horses win only –"

" – Please, Marshall; not now."

Casting her a troubled look as they waded through the throngs toward the pari-mutuel line, he ventured pushing her sudden mood change.

"Do I detect some random memory of less than stellar quality resurfacing with the equine theme? It can't be the gambling; poker and slots don't yank your chain."

Mary hesitated a moment, then handed him the short version. It should keep him satisfied well enough. At least his mouth shut up.

"My dad used to bring me to the race track, and I always thought it was something special for just the two of us. I was always picking up losing tickets off the ground, thinking I was doing something nice by cleaning up around him. Turns out he only brought me so I could hunt down winners the losers threw down wrongfully. I was his tool for trolling."

Silent nod of understanding left her feeling worse.

They'd reached the long counter of mutuel clerks. Mary spotted her prey, calling him over to the blank space.

"Hey, Jack!" she yelled over wagers being placed, effectively cutting Marshall off from his asinine follow-up question he'd had just enough time to ponder. One answer she didn't care to give.

Jackie Mason, nee Martin, in modest gray suit and pale sunshine tie approached from behind the secured line to lean over the counter, an impromptu and gregarious hug for Mary and hearty handshake for Marshall in greeting.

"Mary, Marshall! Great to see you guys. What brings you by the track? We're not running live tonight, just ITW."

"Yeah, we know," she assured him, still uncomfortable with ever-present reminders of bitter betrayals. "Just a check-up, see how things were going."

"Excellent!" This sounded genuine, his entire face lit up with grin and bright eyes. This was Marshall's area – happiness. Mary did well with corrections, not celebrations of a complete embrace of a new life. It was hard to regale in leaps and bounds with someone when one's own progress was limited to just trying not to slip back yet another giant step.

"Can't say it enough, guys," he continued eagerly, oblivious to her inner musings. "Thanks for the help with the job. Who knew all that time fixing bikes for an uncle who liked to bet the ponies could land me a technician's position, huh? Working on these tote terminals – it's pretty different. I _feel _different."

"I'm impressed, Jack." And Marshall _was_, too. He was always so pleased with these updates, especially when it was a calculated move of his that had paid off to the benefit of these felonies-gone-straight deals. "You're exceeding your own expectations, though I figured you could do the job. It's a background well suited for this, but certainly not obvious. And, being a quarter horse track, you're much less likely to ever see anyone from the old days – they're more the thoroughbred type; bigger money."

For several minutes Jackie chatted on, sharing ideas he was toying around with such as going to night school, getting some college under his belt. He'd been lucky to finish high school, and only barely; the call of companionship and illusion of power had early on pulled him from the world of education and achievement.

"Was even thinking about signing up –" An interruption came from behind, another suited technician calling back to Jackie that he was done for the day.

"Outta here, BD; catcha later."

"G'night, Henson," Jackie called back. Turning back, Marshall addressed him first, cutting Mary's question with his own. The same, but more diplomatic and calm.

"BD?"

Jackie had the grace at least to blush. "Bull Dog."

"Jackie!" Mary hissed, leaning in with hands in aggressive stance on the counter, her voice lowered and threatening. This was _her_ area of expertise. "Look, the whole point of this program is to leave your former life behind, and that means any identifying indicators such as a nickname assigned to you by which an entire gang, who – need I remind you – is still searching for you in order to put the dog down permanently."

"Mary, I promise you," Jackie pleaded, earnest in his explanation. "I didn't tell them that. The guy who trained me, he said I was like a terrier trying to troubleshoot problems with the terminals. One of the other guys heard, and said I looked more like a bulldog than a terrier. The name stuck, though I tried to unstuck it. At least I got 'em to shorten it to 'BD,' right?" He looked hopeful.

Mary was ready to disagree on principal, though really, he had handled it as well as could be expected. She just wasn't in the mood to be reasonable. But yet again her partner got involved, apparently sensing her state.

"That's pretty good, Jack," he praised, easing tension. "If they keep it to that, you should be fine. Just let us know if you have any problems, all right? You did good," he reiterated, a pat to the shoulder of the stocky ex-biker.

"Funny, you know," Jackie added before turning to take a call from down the line; someone needed ticket paper. He was thoughtful, musing. "You reinvent yourself, whole new past and job and life and all – totally fresh everything – and some things, you just can't escape from. No matter how much you change, you just sorta, you know, don't. You are who you are, inside; don't make any difference how hard you try to be something else."

Marshall made a noncommittal sound, a grunt of 'ah-hah' to Mary's ears, and she whipped to face him, ready to bark and bite over his obvious insinuation that Jackie made more sense than she did, that she was overreacting to the slip and that Jackie's point was so strikingly correct. But Marshall wasn't giving her the 'hah, see?' triumphant smirk; he was staring blankly across the counter toward some unknown point far behind Jackie. Well, then; at least it wasn't about her rebelling apple falling not so far from the gambling tree, either.

Their witness cast quick goodbyes, promising to call, and scurried off to fetch paper like the mutt he seemingly resembled. Mary scowled. "Fine. Let's just go. I'm ready to abandon the Sport of Jesters."

Without a correction to her half-hearted snark, Marshall turned and followed her out. Once back at the SUV, she suddenly felt lighter, better humor returning with the distance put between her and the establishment. He must have noticed, because climbing in behind the wheel, he finally spoke.

"Listen; if you think you can function without me to finish up the progress report on Mason, I'd like to cut out when we get back."

He was pulling back out of the parking lot, leaving the dust and PA of rent monies wagered against Fate in the name of supposed statistics. She barked a laugh.

"Sure, if you want the narrative to read: Witness has screwed the pooch; dog days come back to bite him in the ass. Bitch at the pound has a bone to pick."

Expected sigh. "Fine. I'll do it Monday."

"Honestly, Marshall," she quipped, unmoved. Like hell she was going to fill out his paperwork. He should have known better. "What's so important you can't just get it done this afternoon? What, _Star Wars_ marathon on or something?"

Quick '_oh, please_' look then back to the road. "I've got a date."

She snorted. "Oh, right; so how much do seamstresses charge these days to hem a Klingon suit?"

"_Hah_," he laughed shortly, a mischievous grin breaking. "You'd _love_ to see me in a commander's uniform."

"Pfft. Oh, really?" Her amusement heightened ten-fold with his practical admission to having one. Maybe her day wasn't a total waste. "True, I could use a good laugh to brighten the days of my craptastic existence. What, the laser pointer command its own pocket protector? Does geekdom do bell bottoms these days? Best be sure your sew-girl gets the cut right or you'll never get those boots on under it." Dry landscape flew by, and Mary could only look at it through eyes narrowed in suppressed glee. He was off his game, handing her the ammunition gift-wrapped in Kryptonite or something.

But Marshall only smirked, a half smile pulling his lips and suggesting the eyes behind dark sunglasses were sparkling with some secret-knowing power.

"No alterations necessary, Mary; my uniform fits so well you can decipher my religion."

The quick comeback died on her lips, and her mouth hung open, formless. A pause, wordless, then closure again, a look of conceding on her face. Really, how could anyone beat that? And two, who would _want_ to? Quickly she dismissed the encroaching mental picture; before his last statement, the image of Marshall in convention costume was tickling. Enough material for a week's worth of geek jokes. After he'd established that not-so-little detail, however… it was disturbing in whole other ways.

Not something she cared to associate with Marshall.


	4. Ch 4: While You're Making Other Plans

**Disclaimer:**Owning Mary would be a masochistic move; owning Marshall would be… heavenly.

**Author's Note:**I had really meant for more than two significant scenes, but it just worked out this way.

_**As always, r**__**eviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts!

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 4: While You're Making Other Plans**

When she was in high school, Friday nights had a meaning, one that did not include sleepovers with girlfriends, painting toenails and chatting about the boys in school. They had generally consisted of hauling her mother out of whatever dive she'd managed call from, informing Mary that they needn't wait up for her. In good instances, the background noise and music indicated a parameter of where her dear parental figure could be found; in poor ones, she'd take a stab at the most logical, depending on which horny leech Jinx had attached herself to that week.

The other pattern to her Friday nights had been acting chaperone for Brandi, outthinking her when possible in order to head off any escape her little sister had intended. Even then Brandi's choice in company had left much to be desired. But if Brandi managed her disappearance, or Jinx was still out (or even if she were in; physical attendance did not equate 'being there'), Mary's wee hours were frequently spent trolling the streets in some semi-running jalopy, under-aged, looking for either hapless Shannon woman. It was a wonder she'd managed to graduate high school. It was _no_ wonder why she'd married Mark right after.

College Friday nights had meant drinking, pizza, men… and studying. First marriage failed, crisis of career and life had come into immediate play, along with the need to feed herself outside of thieved leftovers from the local frat parties. So, studying had fit in there, buffered on each side by a crappy job cashiering and stocking shelves at the local sporting goods store and part time warehouse work, unloading shipments of refrigerator parts. At least the store was where she'd met a retired marshal who'd opened her eyes to a major in criminal justice. The warehouse had given her nothing but a backache.

Then again, that same marshal _had_ promised her adventure…

At least she'd learned her firearms there.

The _ding _of the microwave notified Mary her exquisite evening meal was ready for consumption, and she pushed off her granite-topped island, leaving memory musings behind upon it.

Thrill of solitary accommodations had waned, and were Mary honest with herself she'd realize that she was more a social creature than she'd ever have believed. That wasn't to say just anyone's company would do, however; no, her mother and sister were fine in small – very small – miniscule, even – doses. But as much as she had avoided Raph in day to day life, she did miss the comfort of another being around late at night. Sure, their relationship had really been about the sex and little else. They had never really talked; not about important things, anyway. But he had been there, had been an option to drive the complete emptiness away when the day was done and her witnesses were tucked safely in bed, office closed up for the night, partner off in scholarly land.

Marshall had said he had a date tonight. Mary snorted at the thought. For some reason a circle not unlike one of her mom's AA meetings popped into mind, the topic giving way over alcohol to assigned literature. He'd never mentioned a book club, but it was just the thing to keep him occupied on a balmy Friday evening. Or maybe this was paper-cutting – no, paper-_folding_ – night. She smirked.

Grabbing a beer and a fork, she hauled dinner to her inviting couch and settled in with the remote, intent on drowning recollections and too much thought in three weeks' of DVR'd _Criminal Minds_. Sorting out the psychologically disturbed helped put her own familial life in better – if not objective – perspective.

Two and a half hours later, Mary accepted the fact that she was, indeed, lonely. Subjected to Marshall's torrents of information all day, the interactions of work and merely dealing with the public, it was all she could want to get home and be left at peace. And, at one time, it really was all that she had wanted, with an occasional hot romp on the side. But two weeks had passed since Brandi had moved in with Peter, and lately her sister had been absorbed by education and a good man, not needing to beleaguer her elder sister with problems or needs. Her mother was apparently doing well in both sobriety and the realization of a dream, in some sense of the word, and she failed to need an hourly fix from Mary, either. And Mary… with no one to fix, no one to bang, and no one to harass…

Mia Cusato. She missed the Mafioso princess, terribly. Finally a woman who would have made the ideal girlfriend for Mary, someone just as blunt, just as fucked up by family. And she had to go and die. A morose shadow passed over Mary with the reflection, reminding her Fate's little toying game of tease and trash. Everyone special to her had been dangled like a carrot then yanked from her life, leaving her just a bit more hollow, a bit more guarded. All but Marshall.

Her best friend. Now _he_ she wouldn't mind spending her free time with, inane drabble and all. Sure, his off-the-chart intelligence could grate on her nerves at times, but when push came to total bulldozing, she had to admit to herself there was no one she'd rather have at her back. Or side. Or, hell, simply in the room on the deserted island of life with her. Not that she'd shown her appreciation much for him these past months, she conceded. But he knew how she felt, how she viewed him as her only friend, a man she'd take a second goddamned bullet for.

Mary simply wasn't a 'teller.'

Fuck it. She was bored, lonely, and had had about all she could stand of the steady _tick, tick, tick_ of her living room wall clock. Surely knitting class was over by now.

Grabbing her cell, she pressed keys burned into memory and waited expectantly. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four –

"_Maaary_…" Drawn out like she was just topic of conversation. Why did that rankle? "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's _wrong_," she told him, hackles rising momentarily. Why did he always assume the worst? "Geez, can't I call you without it being a national security breach?" The line remained silent, and she figured Marshall took that as rhetorical. She went on.

"Look, if you're not busy, I –"

"Actually, Mare," he cut in, and she could hear a hint of warning in his voice, "I'm having dinner. I _told_ you I was going out tonight. So unless it's a quick question or a matter of pressing issue…" He let the remainder hang. Mary suddenly realized he hadn't been blowing smoke when he'd mentioned his plans. Well, huh. She hadn't counted on that. He really was out for the evening.

Conjuring an excuse on the fly, she answered. "Actually, the former."

"_He's waiting, Marshall; would you like me to order for you?_"

"Who the hell was that?" Mary's tone was sharper than she'd meant. The most assuredly feminine voice in the background rose above white noise of chatter and soft music. He was on a date. With a woman. _Huh._

Marshall's response to the female in question must have been non-verbal, for his immediate words were to Mary, an annoyance building. "_Mary_… the _question_?"

"God, lighten up." Defensive measures always kicked in when confronted with embarrassment or surprise. This was both. "If I'd known low blood sugar made you so damn grouchy…"

"Mary!"

"All right, all right." Stalling was over. "I'm just looking into Niles Lebinski. He's coming in from South Bend, Indiana on Wednesday, and I just got a feeling about him. So, just wanted to know if you'd run a background check and work-up on him for me, find all his nasty little secrets."

"You _know_," some exasperation, "they have _analysts _for that sort of thing."

"Yeah, I know, but you've got that special skill and all those Force-Be-With-You contacts. And besides, you know I don't trust anyone else with the real low-down on my witnesses. Not when something reeks to high heaven. I can smell it."

Heavy sigh met her request, a long pause, and Mary could hear the grimace in his voice. "All right; I'll do it. But can't this wait 'til Monday?"

Relief made her eager. She was just happy he'd agreed, considering the flimsy strength the excuse was, and how flustered she had become with this whole conversation once she'd realized her interruption of his social, non-academic outing. She tried for happy. "Yeah, _sure_. Monday's great."

"Fine. I'll run it Monday. And Mare?"

"Yeah?"

"Get your nose checked." The connection dropped.

Thoughtfully Mary ended the call from her end, all at once feeling tired. She couldn't get over the fact she knew she actually had interrupted Marshall's date. And why was it she had been so sure he had been yanking her chain earlier when he'd said he had one? Why was it she automatically assumed he was off on one of his dance lessons or cooking classes or some foreign film festival? She knew – _knew_ – he dated. Not quite so privy, come to think of it, was she in his dating life, it seemed. A feeling of foolishness washed over her, forcing acceptance that Marshall kept much of his personal life private… from her. He'd once touted her as his only friend in return to her declaration, and yet, even so… there was so much she didn't know about him.

Giving her pause, Mary Shannon drained her beer, tossed her fork in the sink with the plastic plate, and decided her house was no longer a refuge tonight. She had to get out.

**-o-**

He was tired. Tired in so many ways. And yet, here he was, typing the door-lock passcode for the front doors and making his way silently through the ground floor entryway toward the still elevators. Shae had been understanding when he'd cut their evening short, citing herself worn from her day. But Marshall couldn't help but feel it unfair to her. Still, guilt and obligation and something he didn't care to identify had nagged his gut all through dinner until he'd made up his mind to call it an early night and head back to the office. He'd told himself it would shut up Mary's complaining, getting the work-up completed tonight or at least the ground work. Calls, chats and texts tomorrow could have it complete by early Monday, before she ever came in.

He told himself that, but the legitimacy of that claim wavered in the dim atmosphere of security-only lighting.

Stepping off the elevator, Marshall approached the security door, swiping his ID distractedly in the wake of glowing from a single desk lamp against the pitch office. Had Mary left her light on from when she'd called hours ago?

Through the door and…

The soft hue caressed her facial planes and curves with a subtlety that asked permission rather than demanded. She was hunched over her desk, pen in hand, forms and scrap paper spread before like a sacrificial altar. He'd caught her by surprise judging by her startled glance, but not so much that she'd jumped from her task or drawn in protection.

Lower lip still worried between straight white teeth, golden locks falling haphazardly from a high ponytail, expression unaware… it was a rare treat, Marshall had to admit. Mary looked so innocent sitting there, grayish blue concert tee wrinkled and loose, no doubt a pair of cotton running shorts beneath the drape of the Verve Pipe.

"What are you doing here?" she queried softly once her voice was found.

"I could ask you the same thing." Eyes timid met his somber, and held.

A pause, gathering of thoughts. "Labinski," she said, tipping up the page she was writing upon.

"I told you I'd run that for you."

"Yeah." She paused again, head gesturing to himself. "You said you'd do it Monday. Why're you here now?"

"Changed my mind." Finally he approached around his desk, slow in the process. A hum natural and years old vibrated through him. His mind, his emotions, were swirling in overload. Jackie's words of earlier in the day flitted through his head, suggesting in a wisdom born of experience that there were parts of yourself that remained ingrained, no matter how much you chose to change, or how much change had occurred around you. Forced emotional distancing had done nothing but enhance feelings when he saw her. Pretenses down, lost… for the moment. For this moment, before him, in the surreal of one lone lamp. The rest of the world did not exist. And Marshall felt only the bittersweet rush of tingle to his nerves.

For Lent one year he'd given up chocolate. By day forty, he could scent it ten feet away, still wrapped. Heightened sensitivity. He could scent her, too, right now. By nose, eyes, flavor drifting on the air. Shelley was right yet again: he would have to allow for one last, honest try before he could purge her from his system. He'd never done that; it was the kernel of hope he'd stubbornly held, hidden from even himself. To try and fail would mean giving up any residual fantasy. Permanently.

But he needed a moment. Or several. Declarations of love simply weren't going to just spew forth tonight. Not… right now, at least. He was here to help her. Good start. Besides; he needed a few breaths to recoup wayward, mutinous thoughts and nervous, giddy twinges.

"Trouble with your forms?" he asked gently. Light smile pulled at his lips. That was his Mary; a force to be reckoned with unless you handed her a black ink pen and fill-in-the-blank.

A return smile. "Don't you know it." Statement. Familiarity.

For the next hour Marshall nudged Mary in the right direction, scanning databases and cross-referencing from his desk while Mary chewed the tip of her pen and commentated musingly between descriptors and case numbers. While she had him there, she was apparently going to use him as she went through numerous witnesses' triplicates. Frustration built in tidal waves, resulting in hair band being ripped out, murmured curses, agitated tapping of hands, feet, pens. A certain adorableness draped the image.

Somewhere after midnight, he glanced up to see her standing near the window, case folder in hand. Whether studying criminal predicate on carbon paper or contemplating life's quirky twists with the solitary view across Albuquerque's rooftops, he wasn't sure. But Mary's form was statuesque, quiet.

Conscious thought failed to enter the picture before Marshall found himself silently to her left, just behind her. She showed no outward acknowledgement of his presence, merely continued sightless watch over the vague flitters of pinpoint lights in the night. Lost in her own thoughts, she drew from him a longing urge to protect, to heal her.

With the touch of a rose petal, Marshall's right fingertips hesitantly reached for her neck, nails meeting flesh several inches below her ear. Catching tangled locks, he leisurely back-brushed along toward her spine with the finest touch, sweeping the golden curtain from her cool face and shoulder. Gooseflesh bubbled along his path; his own body responded with a hitch. Tight swallow, calming of his heart…

When she made no other show of awareness, he let his hand trail down and across her back – barely touching – to settle just above the curve in her right hip. Steeling himself, Marshall leaned over her left shoulder, so close – so very close – to her face, breathing in scents so distinctly Mary. Intoxicating. Eyes closed momentarily, deep, burning breath, a second in time to escape into her. To drown in her. The physicality was natural for them, but crossing into an intimacy equally as natural… for him. Fulfilling. Enveloping. Then forcing himself, his eyes opened and he peered down at her folder, investigating. He was curious as to what distracted her so.

A squint, focus… the case failed to stir memory. His thoughts jogged through dates, names, attempting to recollect something obviously unremarkable. What had given her such pause –

"What the hell are you _doing,_ Marshall?" She'd whipped about, facing him in a sudden surge of reanimation, annoyance heavy in her accusatory question. His hand had not dropped when she'd turned, and now it rested lightly upon left hip, but she took no notice. She'd caught him off guard, leaving a man usually so well composed at a loss. Sarcasm, as par, mingled with her dirty look of narrowed eyes and tight mouth. Slight pull and twist from him.

"Trying to cop a feel?" she quirked. Then chastising, "Personal space here, you perv."

Nothing she had just said was offensive. Nor was it out of her character. Nor surprising, really. Their typical banter all but required it. But the timing… It said everything. _Shouted_ everything. Everything his heart did not want to hear.

And his hand dropped to his side without fanfare, and the truth drove a dagger into him with assassin efficiency. And he knew with surety of the sunrise, she would never see him, feel for him as more than her partner, her best friend. And the dream of their family disintegrated in a blink. And his future was left painfully void before him.

And his heart broke.

**-o-**

His hand had dropped immediately from her at her weight shifting backward, and though it had barely pressed into her floating ribs, its sudden absence left a bereft coolness beneath her tee. He'd startled her, her thoughts fleeing on some magical plane of contemplation before his breath upon her jaw line had jarred her awake to his presence. And she'd jumped, speaking as she'd turned to face him. Chastising for the scare. Brooking wry humor to cover embarrassment at being caught gathering proverbial wool.

But she had seen his eyes, saw something unidentifiable flash across them for a breath when she'd twisted back in order to gain her mental balance and perspective. Fleeting, but surely there. Then a return to normal, passive expression as his hand had fallen back to his side. An undercurrent had shifted; she'd felt it. But no trace could be found as to what, how. Unexplained panic sluiced icily down chest, settling rock heavy and hard in the pit of her stomach. Mary suddenly had an irrational feeling she had just been given a test… and had failed.

Whatever had transpired in those seconds in his brain, Marshall was now again himself, the man she'd known seven years. Pull of one facial side gave a crooked, smirking grin.

"As if I'd leave a beautiful woman early just to come here and feel you up." The dry chuckle was expected, but somehow didn't quite reach his eyes. Turning abruptly, he headed to his desk again, speaking louder than necessary as he sat down and returned eyes to the monitor, hand to the mouse.

"Was just wondering what the file was. But as it appears to not be relevant to tonight's endeavor, I shall refrain from inquiring any further information and bid you a good evening."

When she merely looked confusedly at him, he elaborated, still trained on his screen. "Means go home, Mary. You're tired, and there's nothing more you can do with this. I'll finish it up this weekend, Monday morning at the latest."

"No, Marshall; I can stay," she managed, moving once more in order to return the file to her cabinet. "I asked you do to this –"

"No, Mary," he interrupted, voice ragged, tight. "I won't be that much longer – just waiting on a few search returns. Go home, get some rest, and I'll see you on Monday."

She didn't miss the vocal change. What was wrong with him tonight? Had his date not gone well? The consideration caught, and Mary, never one to be shy with opinion, jumped on the topic.

"You left your date early? Was she that bad?" she mused with laughter. He needed to genuinely smile again.

"Mary." Tone held warning this time, and he threw a glance at her before returning to his work. Even in the shadows, something seemed… _off_ in his gaze.

"Mary, just…" he continued, now weary. Pleading. "Just… go home."

Spider sense she may have, and at that instant, it told her to simply shut up and do as he asked. She nodded in acquiescence, and turned to go. Passing his desk as she headed for the door, she paused, looking over her shoulder.

"I owe you one."

He never looked up; distracted. "Uh-huh."

She'd been properly dismissed.

As the security door _click_ed shut behind her, Mary glanced back at the figure sitting properly straight in the stark glow of his computer, doing what he always seemed to be doing…

Helping her.

**-o-0-o-**

Jackie Mason knew a thing or two about dangerous situations, and this was a brew just this side of boiling over. He had but to move erroneously, sneeze, trip… anything that alerted the three on the other side of the aged wooden slats to his presence, and he would be dead, he had little doubt. He could only hope Corinne was having difficulty with her dorm key as usual; if she came back now, it could be deadly timing for them both.

Remaining hidden was an obvious requirement, but Jackie couldn't stay crouched in the twelve by twelve for long. Agitated shuffling behind him reminded another danger, equal in possibility of fatality or upheaval. It was hard at this point to decide the lesser of the two evils. Change his entire life again or be dead. Only thoughts of protecting Corinne leaned him further down in hiding; he had to be alive and undetected if he was going to help her.

If they completed their discussion quickly, Jackie could move himself out into the shed row with time to settle before she returned. But the plotters had to immediately adjourn, or at the least, cease with the talk and the incriminating scent of herbs and cash. Jackie prayed for a quick departure. Charlemagne's Bane was getting antsy; he didn't appreciate the intrusion.

Leg cramp building, Jackie bit his lip against the pain to remain still. Shifted, eased to the right… the left. But it became too much and he gathered his weight gently beneath him, ever so carefully rising to relieve the tension –

_Bam!_ Sharp pain to his head, a ringing, a pitch and roil, then his world went black.


	5. Ch 5: Life Is What Happens

**Disclaimer: **I'd be more than happy to join Vega and offer the writers some direction and suggestions, but for now I neither own the series nor have any influence over the storylines or characters. More's the pity.

**Author's Note: **TWO-season renewal! Can I get an _Amen!_ from the audience? _Hoo-whah!_

Also, this is **fair warning**: the ending of this chapter may have some readers in a mutiny or complete tizzy; trust me, there is both purpose and unforeseen direction in this long-planned twist, and it may not be quite what you think. Bear with me, and take deep breaths.

_**As always, r**__**eviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts!

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 5: Life is What Happens**

He'd wanted to tell her. He had been _going_ to tell her. Straight out, simple. "_I love you, Mary. I'm _**in**_ love with you._" He had been just working up to it, testing the waters by toe, foot, calf. But he'd never made it past the first little piggy. She'd freaked… simply at his touch. A touch that should, by now, be natural and easy. Her tartness, though normal in defense, had had no call to be there. Sure, he had surprised her, but he saw in her expression honest annoyance; she didn't want his touch.

That had said enough… and quite clearly.

Another long, slow sip of Jameson 1780 left a beautiful burn as it flowed down his throat, infusing his passionate blood-turned-cold with a pleasant fuzziness. Regrettably, he was still quite sober and far too clear-headed. Images of hours before still sharp focused flooded his mind without invitation, yet in resignation he accepted their claim jumping. He would think of it, think of her, until he passed out. In sleep he would still feel her heat permeating through the cotton tee into his palm… smell the slight musk of long-evaporated sweat from her day.

Reflexively the swallow reoccurred; no liquid to tempt it, for it was tight and painful and the sort only brought on by overwhelming need for physical reaction to such strong mental stimuli. Eyes closed momentarily against the world to experience her nearness once more. Downy soft locks caressing his jaw, luring him in closer, whispering suggestions for his fingers to introduce themselves with Southern charm and ease.

Marshall opened his eyes painfully, banishing the reminders. Already his stomach knotted hard, against the aged Irish whiskey, against the understanding of what tonight meant for his entire life.

Pouring another two fingers, he shifted and re-crossed his long legs stretched before him, propped upon the low roof wall. Four stories below, city life of Albuquerque went on in the jet navy haze that was two thirty-six a.m. Amber-orange flickers greeted his silent toast as he leaned deeper back into the pocket chair, lazy sweep of his eyes seeking some reminding proof of joy in this world.

_Flap_ and _tweet_ of a lone pair of barn swallows drew his eyes over his left shoulder, catching the flick of jay blue in soft reflection of nearby security lights breaking off the bay window. He'd left a feeder out near one of the potted Japanese Cherry Blossom trees – or _Sakura_ – and they had come to feast on what was left after the more territorial birds had made off with their feasts. Marshall sighed. He really ought to gather himself together and go inside, strip for bed and force himself to think of other things – anything else – to fall into a dreamless slumber. A hangover would not be conducive to handling jarring power tools in the morning. As much as he would prefer to remain home in a drunken stupor for the entire weekend, he had made a promise to help out with a Habitat house going up tomorrow… today.

Heavily pulling himself from his seat, he dropped bare feet onto a section of stiff, springy grass and rose. Even in his soulistic breakdown, Marshall could still appreciate the feat of engineering, craftsmanship and creativity nearly ten years of work had borne. Turning away from the rooftop edge, he made his way lightly, silently through the multi-layered, multi-leveled landscaped roof that acted as a backyard to his fifth floor loft.

Inside the French doors his eyes adjusted to the natural half light of moon and reflective street-lamps. His arrival home an hour prior had not included a desire to brighten his way by any electrical means. Even the brass Asian lanterns on the pebbled walk outside had been left dark. A sulk, he knew, and perhaps pity of the self-proclaimed kind to boot. But considering everything, Marshall felt himself deserving now if at no other time. After all, it wasn't every day you stabbed yourself in the heart.

Sandalwood drifted lightly on the air, mixing with the faint scents that wafted up from the floor. Salvaged tongue and groove, worn and soft with decades of wear and lemon oil. It blessed his feet with every painful pad across the airy living room. Check to the right forty-five degrees, his toes catching the slight uneven lay that told him the open kitchen was just a yard or so away. Confirmation with the introduction of cold, natural stone tile. Muted, multi-colored stones, he envisioned, inviting in their smoothed ridges. He stepped one stride then turned in place to his left for the dark blue-gray soapstone-topped island he knew would catch the bottle and glass even as he held them out in sacrifice.

As appealing as drinking all night was at that very moment, Marshall disciplined himself to think beyond the immediate need to how the morning would be greeted. Besides, it was a guarantee tomorrow night would beg for even more, once all the implications of tonight came to the fore and reiterated themselves ten fold. So he left the artificial peace, turned, and cautiously stepped through the shadows to the double ceramic sink, fumbling for a glass and turning the tap. _Hydration now or headache later. _Logic still reigned somewhere in his mind.

He leaned back against the counter as he drank, pressing his thoughts toward his home in order to force out the more dominate broodings. Though only surreal in the snatches of moonlight, he knew the intricacies of his labors well.

High, multi-paned skylights, wooden beams… the block glass half-wall that separated the door's entryway for about ten feet before curving another few to convey a sense of intimacy in the living room. Sense of peace in the hanging ferns there, the purple Wandering Jews in the kitchen, the potted palms inside… and the contained water features and cypress mulch out back. A place filled with artifacts, cultural hodge-podge, knick knacks of memories and curiosities, of knowledge and introspect. Framed Casablanca poster, library of ancient tomes and periodic tables and gem-filled globe and incense. Tolkien meets Musashi, Nineteenth Century meets modern-day tech-geek. Blends of Renaissance and whimsy. Sections of comfortable clutter.

He'd taken the top floor of the small, aged warehouse he'd bought at commissioner's auction twelve years back – structurally sound but too small for developers, too nondescript a section of town for the Nuevo Riche – and had lovingly, painstakingly chipped away at it like a sculpture, allowing the beauty of old architecture to come alive. The fifth floor was only three-quarters the floor plan of the rest of the building, the fourth floor roof creating a canvas on which he brought alive a Japanese and Zen garden, a retreat.

But it was the kitchen he'd been most proud to have finished, the forest green trim he knew complimented the exposed brick, the rich unvarnished teak cabinets. Even the cast iron French stove and oven he'd located at an estate auction in NOLA and converted with hidden electrical elements… Updated to modern convenience with Old World Style. He'd done much of the work himself, contracting out the rest, the large projects he could not do himself. Leveraging this and that to pay the fees, bartering where he could, borrowing bank and early on, family, until he could renovate the four floors below in basic but characterized lofts themselves. Brought in leasers, brought in a property management firm to keep his name and identity out of his clients' knowledge. To them, a bachelor merely lived quietly on the top floor.

A good investment, that's what his dad had said. From Seth Mann, those were as complimentary words as he would get. Not that his dad approved of the waste of space the garden represented, but Marshall had intended it to be a refuge, a place his children could learn to appreciate the beauty of growing green and pink and combing sand and pebbles, of nurturing and shaping the bonsais… of the strength of delicacy. Of course, they would also have room to run and romp and chase and pretend on the acreage he would buy, the French Country home he would build there, for them and his… love.

The sigh-choke-sob broke before he could stop it. Mary never would be that love, the one he wanted to build a home for. The one for whom he wanted to keep this loft as a lovers' weekend getaway while the kids visited with uncles and aunts and grandparents. He stifled a half-chuckle at the vision he'd had of Brandi acting the _fun_ aunt, the one the kids would beg to be let loose with for the weekend. The one who would dress them out in fashion and let them stay up late to watch slasher films and earn tummy aches from too much Chunky Monkey. If only she would choose _classic_ horror, he might agree…

But his wry laugh faded into the far too empty loft, leaving a wan smile laced in grief. Pausing a few breaths, he heaved a sigh and turned away to head down the left hallway to his bed. Dreams of her would plague him this night, he knew, but how could he ever wish for the alternative, to forget her?

Stripping to black boxer briefs and a fine sheen of sweat, Marshall crawled beneath cool sheets with a ceiling fan rhythmically lulling him into a restless sleep. Deep. Fuzzy. Blonde tendrils soft with a scent wholly her own, burning him from within with an acidic gnaw, clawing at him, haunting him…

**-o-**

6:37 greeted with stunning bright amber, chasing away demons of the soul. Resolution floated, lay itself heavily upon him, and Marshall dialed his cell before swinging long limbs off the lonely crimson-sheeted queen. He'd been unfair to her with his affections, with his longing lying elsewhere, and it was time to set that right. It was time he grew up, disengaged himself from this fantasy and became the man he'd always prided himself to be, to give her an honest opportunity to lay claim to his heart, unfettered.

"Hey," he answered softly when she picked up. He knew she'd be up, preparing for her day. "What say tonight I pick you up after work? Bring a change of clothes; we'll go out for dinner at that little Thai place you wanted to try… make up for last night. I'm sorry about that, Shae; won't happen again."

**-o-0-o-**

The heat was oppressive, an offense on par with Albuquerque in early August. Mary shielded her eyes against blinding sunlight, barely catching sight of the wide, arcing swing. Resonating _crack!_ informed her the play was good, and she visually followed briefly the scramble toward the other side of the field before refocusing her eyes on the predominately white-clad streak bee-lining for first base. When he'd rounded and continued on to second, she found herself holding breath and mentally chanting with the calls all around her, only to release the air when he reached the base and held.

"All right, Tripp! Way to go!" she called out with the chorus, applauding in encouraging fashion. Reclaiming her seat on the burning aluminum bleachers, her mind briefly fled to a year prior, and Mary attempted to juxtaposition the sulky young man then to the happy, all-star senior of now. Tripp (Stewart) Sullivan had found his love of baseball again, his mother Maureen holding on to stable responsibility long enough between Mary's picking up of the pieces so that Tripp's most recent eleven months had allowed for some personal time. He had gotten his grades back on track, made up for his junior year's inconsistencies due to caring for his younger siblings, and had found a bit of his childhood once more.

Mary smiled wistfully, amazed at the change, but so very happy for it as well. She cast a fleeting glance beside her, taking in Maureen's sunburned face grinning with parental pride. Nothing short of a miracle there, she mused. The last two months, the woman had genuinely acted mother to her three, a feat neither small nor expected. Still, Mary was there for Tripp anytime he felt overwhelmed, and he had managed since that day of unprocessed custody forms to restructure himself, knowing he had Mary to back him when things went awry. It wasn't easy, and by no means was there unconditional trust involved with his mother, but as Mary had promised, the marshal was there for him, a phone call away, and that had made all the difference. He would not become her; he would not give up his whole childhood, and in so desperately seek the first opportunity to escape by whatever means.

Two more hits brought Tripp home, and another three after a strike-out won their game. Sportsmanship and showers and twenty-two minutes later Tripp came out from the locker rooms nearly as wet as he'd been going in. His eyes lit up as he caught sight of Mary standing with his mom and younger siblings.

"Mary! You came." Voice incredulous but pleased, and Mary answered him as he came in for a surprising hug.

"Hey, I resent that," she mocked in humor. Even in her boots, she had to lean upward; he'd shot up a number of inches in the last year. "Told you I'd make your big game, didn't I?"

"Yeah," he replied shyly, stepping out of the embrace to make a showy, comical grab for his little sister, his younger brother teasing her for her giggles of delight. Mary smiled, pleased and heartened by the familial glee.

"All right, you all," Maureen amusedly scolded. "Tripp, put your sister down," she commanded, Tripp having tossed the young girl over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, threatening to drop her backwards on her head.

"Billy, stop antagonizing your sister." This for the hair pulls and faces he was making at her behind Tripp's back. "Gretel, stop squealing; I'm sure Mary would like to keep her hearing."

"Hey, it's not Mary's ear she's screeching into," Tripp complained in fake exasperation. His grin simply did not fade one iota. Mary tried not to laugh, but failed.

"That's your own fault there, buster," the marshal finally returned, indicating his sack-o-potatoes hold on his sister. "Drape the little piggy 'til her dress falls over her head, and she'll squeal 'Wee, wee, wee' all the way home… and into your room to destroy everything of high-school masculine value."

The laughter became too much and Tripp set his sister back on her feet, the hippie skirt she'd donned managing to stay properly protective of her legs the whole time. She socked his arm and stuck her tongue out at him petulantly.

"Hey, Mary; we're going for celebratory pizza – wanna come?"

Mary turned to Maureen, an instinctive and immediate decline prepared on her lips. But something inside nagged, reminding her there was no one at home to need her, to miss her, to even whine to her. And after last night, she wasn't going to call Marshall; something odd lay that direction, but she knew they'd both need the weekend apart before she could even consider that discovery.

Everything considered, Mary really had no plans to speak of, and could not bring herself to the misery of another entire evening alone at home, listening to the settlings of a house lonely for life.

"Sure," she managed, and was greeted with pleased commentary and promises for cheesy breadsticks and cinnamon desert pizza.

**-o-**

"You guys catch that line drive Jose nailed? Beamed the pitcher _good_," he noted around a mouth full of meat lover's. "He was down at least three or four minutes – was awesome!" Tripp was far too thrilled over the injurious play. His mother gave him 'the look' over her slice of Italian sausage, and Mary caught her own snorted chuckle upon its escape, but late enough that look was turned on her.

"Your mother's right, Tripp" she managed with a throat clearing, great effort going into a bland look and composed voice. An obvious glance to Billy and Gretel strengthened her point. "Someone getting hurt isn't entertainment… or exciting." _Hello, Pot?_ she thought to herself. As the Kettle, her entertainment tended to lean more toward hands-on abuse of criminals and copious amounts of ammunition usage. But then again, she didn't need to share that information.

The din of other players and families and those just out for a Saturday evening hang-out made conversation hit and miss at best. In light of that fact, it was several moments before she caught just what Tripp was asking, and the innocent question settled in a wrench deep in her stomach.

"Your friend Mr. Ramirez," he was questioning over the chatter of the martial arts group that had just settled in the double tables next to them. "Next time you see him, would you thank him for me again? That coaching last year paid off. In fact, ask him if he'd come to one of our practice games next month. I'd love for him to see how much better I've gotten because of him."

Mary didn't have the heart – or the strength – to tell Tripp that Raph was no longer in her life. That the man who'd given his free time to help out her witness, to give him something the boy desperately needed in a father figure and some plain one-on-one time would not make one his games or encourage his batting improvements ever again. And all because she hadn't loved him… enough. That was always the rub, wasn't it? She was never enough, never did enough. Wasn't good enough. Wasn't strong enough or cared enough or enough of what someone wanted… needed. That was why Daddy had left, why Jinx blew up at her constantly, why Brandi… well, hell, Brandi dug her own messes. But really, Mary was the older sister, the one who should have set an example, and her running from her problems by getting married at 17 probably wasn't the best example to set.

And then Raph. He had been right, when he'd left; she didn't love him enough. It wasn't just fear of making another mistake with marriage. It wasn't even the cage his affections seemed to build around her, the one she had to flee with her career in order to breathe deeply. He was a good man who'd put up with her absurd family and her own need for showing strength and being in control. But in the end, all the mixture boiled down from words and excuses, she simply had not loved him enough. And while it hurt to lose him and to see yet another failure in relationships added to her list, it was the impossible to ignore the realization that if it had come down to it, she wouldn't have fought to keep him. How was it she would lay her life on the line and go to extremes for her witnesses, people who more than half the time she could barely tolerate, and yet…

Yet when it came to those in her so-called real life… Yeah, she'd sacrifice herself for her family, because they were family, but who would she ever fight for, work to keep in her life if they chose to leave? Raph had been her lover, an almost-friend, and her intended to be husband. And yet, what did it say that she wouldn't have, couldn't have been bothered to make the effort? Worse yet, she felt no compellation to do so. She was… indifferent. Perhaps she'd always seen him as transient in her life, and perhaps she'd made him that way, intended for him to be so. And that's where it pained the most: what kind of person was she who couldn't feel enough for someone to care whether they stayed or left? She'd cared about him, yes, but she had spent ten times the concern of well-being on thugs and whistle-blowers than she'd bothered with the man meant to be her confidant and protector.

What kind of person was she, who couldn't love enough? No kind of person worth the effort, that's who. And that's what scared her the most: the sort of person she'd become. Or perhaps always had been. _Right, Daddy?_

"Um, yeah, I'll do that if I see him," she managed, fighting the constriction of throat and gut to answer Tripp's request. "He retired from baseball after he tore his ACL, so, um…"

"Ah, man, that sucks," Tripp supplied, and went on in detail about a classmate who had snapped that same ligament, and the year of surgery and therapy they'd spent, trying to return to the game.

Mary glanced around while Billy and Gretel continuously interrupted Tripp with questions about the gross anatomy of a torn ligament, with Maureen clarifying the gory details with more proper medical 'most-likelies' instead. Everywhere she turned, families and groups and couples filled the popular parlor and bar. A pang of sadness began to ache, and Mary refused to allow its birth. She was strong, she was in charge. She would not bow down to this ridiculously childish emotion of self-pity. She didn't need any of that mumbo-jumbo love thing. She had her career, and she was damn fine at it. She had a friend, one she trusted with life and limb. That was all that mattered. She could find a stray cowboy here and there for those parties of two that necessitated playing well with others. But those didn't necessitate having to love enough. They didn't necessitate being worthy enough, either.

A glimpse of gray-white Fu Manchu and bulging biceps caught her attention, and Mary's eyes narrowed in study at the familiar form, hunched in suspiciously private conversation in the shadows of the bar entrance. Incredulity widened her gaze as money far too discretely changed hands, nervous glances about, quick slip into pocket.

Mary pulled her eyes from the scenario long enough to pull her phone, made a show of checking a non-existent message, and slipped it back on her pocket. "Listen guys," she said, wiping her hands and gulping the last of her drink. She stood, throwing a ten on the table, allowing herself to peripherally keep sight of the man before he disappeared in the throngs. "Duty calls. But I'll check on you in a couple weeks, all right? Great game, Tripp," she managed in her run out the door, effort dominate in not losing sight of Jackie as he disappeared into the night.

Keeping adequate distance, Mary tailed Jackie in traffic, his Harley (she'd warned him about that) distinctive in the downtown scurry of teenage carpools and hand-holding pedestrians cooling off in the light breeze of the after-nine atmosphere. The Forte blended well enough in the vague light of city nightlife, and Mary had to admit the smoothness made it easier to concentrate on Jackie and not whether it would die the next intersection, leaving her cursing and pissed off because she'd lost her witness.

Correction: Marshall's witness. _His_ damn witness and she was the one investigating. Then again, there might not truly be anything to investigate, and it was only by chance she'd happened upon that little tête-à-tête in the seclusions of a crowded location. Could also be all innocent, she reminded herself, but something hinky about it put those spidey senses on alert. Marshall needed to know only if it turned out she was right; it wasn't that she cared to interrupt his weekend – it was his witness after all – but she didn't want to hear about it if she were wrong. Another error in her day was not a plan she was game for. She had had enough strike-outs the last 24 hours to warrant a little discretion this time out.

Twenty-two minutes and a couple odd stops and Mary found herself in a more quiet, eclectic section of town. Sparse traffic made her keep greater distance to avoid being spotted, and when Jackie pulled into a dark alley and slipped in an employee's entrance, Mary parked across the street angled from the entrance and observed via binoculars she kept in her console for just such an occasion.

"All right, Jackie boy, what's so special about the upstairs of Dame's Delicatessen that's got you so worked up? What're you up to?" Shifting in her seat, Mary settled in for what she felt might just be a lengthy stakeout. After twelve long minutes of staring at nothing down the delivery alley, she peered around the active foot traffic, mostly college age or professionals in their SoHo attire and trendy haircuts. Mary amused herself with creating faux backstories for each couple or group, brief dissertations on their chances for survival as a single unit.

She was just swinging her sights back from verification that Jackie was still inside when she caught a couple obviously oblivious to the world on the other side of the street, down a quarter block in the shadows of a corner street lamp. Catching only the legs of the female (she assumed a female), Mary noted the girl's position flat against the brick wall of some tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant. The man blocked her from sight, head bent down in apparent lovey-dovey conversation, only raising up in a laugh and quick look at those passing behind him –

"_Shit_." Incredulous and curious at the same time. It was Marshall. And he was…

Mary's eyes widened, then a Cheshire Cat smile drew at her lips. Ah; chances were good this was the woman he'd left the night before if the date had been decent; if not, then a new one to razz him about. Excellent. "Well then, Mr. Mann, let's see just how good a date you really are," she remarked under her breath, no lack of amusement in her voice. Time to see just what her geeky partner was like out of her presence, and discover just why he couldn't keep a woman interested very long.

"Ah, telling clue number one," she snorted to herself, taking in his position with the mystery girl. "Marshall, it is hardly a seductive move to keep nearly a foot between you and your date if you have her pinned back against a wall. Honestly, I've seen seventeen-year-olds with more masculinity than that. Your technique leaves much to be desired, Romeo. Try actually touching her, you big sissy; she doesn't have cooties, you know. Well, let's hope not."

Mary couldn't help but roll her eyes at the almost painfully awkward position he was in; not physically painful, but so awkward to watch. It was all she could do not to feel sorry for him. He was definitely leaning into his companion, and she was short enough he had to lean down a bit, apparently, and with his hands braced on the wall above her on either side… Mary sighed heavily. "Oh, really now, Marshall; Tripp could do a better job."

She took in his upper lean-in and his lower body shyly separated from her. No lustful, needy pressing of hips to hips, or as close to hips as she could be with the height difference. Shifting herself further, Mary contorted herself into an angle that allowed for an almost view of the girl's face… "Move a little, Marshall… that's it…" When a random call from his left stepped him that direction slightly, Mary got a good look at the paramour's face.

"Damn, Marshall! You do know they have statutes against fucking jail bait, right?" Half-cough, half laugh. She was pretty, Mary would reluctantly admit, but she had to be under thirty, and that wasn't something she expected from Marshall. Hell, were she truthful, she'd never imagined he could _get_ a woman under thirty. Vaguely she wondered if there was some sort of hero-worship infatuation involved. Man with a gun… Wouldn't be the first time the badge had a fan following.

Dark, long, curly hair framed a young face rosy-cheeked and far too Midwest innocent to claim Mary's attention for long, but when Marshall turned back to her – what was her name? Had he told her his date's name last night? – Mary's focus became all too filled with interest. Unbuckling herself, she climbed ungracefully over the console to the passenger's seat, eyes never leaving the distant scene, one brow raised in curiosity as she watched him lower his head as though to kiss her. _Ah, now we're getting somewhere. This must be where he's failing the ladies._

Mary only wished she had popcorn for this viewing, preparing herself for the inevitable snark that was going to fall from her lips as she critiqued her partner's adolescent attempts at seduction. Already he failed by what little she could see of his face, that cheesy grin while he spoke to her – God, was she really staring doe-eyed up at him? – the non-sexual stance that screamed he was unsure and lacking confidence around women. But he pulled up short, a good six inches from her lips.

"Oh God, Marshall; grow a pair!" Mary snapped in frustration. How was it possible her kick-ass marshal of a partner was so poorly developed in the art of women? Especially considering his achievements in so many other areas of study. Suave Don Juan he was not. She shook her head sadly, realizing her best friend was in dire need of feminine instruction, and oddly she felt honestly bad for him. Maybe this was what people meant when they beleaguered on about someone having book smarts but no common sense.

Dropping her gaze slightly, she noticed his right arm moving up and down as the backs of his fingers drifted up and down on what Mary could see of the girl's side. Well, at least he's touching her now, she considered. That was a start. Light, and failing to pull the material draped over her either up or away for his hand to slip under, but it was contact nonetheless. It took at least a few minutes before Mary realized she'd been staring at this movement for some time, hypnotized by the continuous, slow brushing along her ribs. Mary shifted uncomfortably, distracted. Like watching a swinging pocket watch, she figured. Raising her sights again, she prepared herself for Python comedy – or maybe Jerry Lewis? – readying for descriptive phrases she would have to save to taunt him with on Monday.

He was teasing her; Mary could make out her blushes and downcast eyes in the ambient light, the smile embarrassed but barely contained. Marshall – the wussy nerd – was grinning just as much, his lips moving as he said something that made her laugh. She cast a few shy looks back up at him, then raised her chin in some sort of humored defiance, a cheeky grin replacing the one of self-consciousness.

"Oh, please," Mary went on, exasperated at the blind leading the blind. Annoyed at the G-rated silliness she was enduring. And why was she enduring it? Because _his_ witness was still in the fucking building down the alley, and she had nothing else to watch in this sleepy part of Albuquerque.

"Marshall, we're really going to have to sit you down and explain the birds and the –"

The kiss was so simple, so gentle, so quick Mary nearly missed it. Just a slight turn of his head to catch the girl's parted lips.

Adjusting the magnification, Mary leaned forward until rubber lining met windshield. His right hand had moved to her jaw, thumb caressing that rosy, innocent cheek with brushes that could hardly have skimmed the skin. And though his lips had made contact only briefly, they retreated only a fractional inch from hers. He was still speaking to her, but somehow Mary didn't think it was a wordy speech on the origins of… anything… and Mary's smart remark about him not knowing to shut up and kiss fell by the wayside as she imagined his breath merely fell warm and light on the girl's cheek as he cocked his head slightly before again letting his lips fall to the corner of her mouth. Thumb moved to mark a line from the center of her lower lip, lowering to her chin… dropping to stroke along her throat, down to the soft dip above her collar bone. A studied path in infinite delay, predatory in the silent understanding of life and death strength held in large hands, long fingers, vulnerable neck.

Fine China. His touch was so light, so reverent, it made her think of handling fine China. His mouth, it was slow, deliberate, coaxing. Never rushed, far from fumbling, and when she saw his tongue outline a section of corner upper lip before drawing it momentarily between his own lips... The jolt was sudden, a flush rushing down her face and body. In a blink Mary realized Marshall's kissing technique was far from juvenile; it was heart-stopping. Though she was far from close, she could _feel_ that lingering combination of teasing lips and soothing fingertips.

A shudder ran through her, the sight of a different side of Marshall unexpected and more than a little disturbing. And when his nose gently nudged her cheek up to nuzzle into the hollow behind her ear… Mary's breath caught. She blinked, unsure what she was witnessing. It was Marshall, yes, but in a light she'd never associated him. Not the damn fine lawman she admitted him to be, or the best and only friend she had. No, this was seeing him for the first time in seven years as… well… a man. Per se. She'd always joked with him about sex, made fun of him about his uber-geekiness and inability to get laid. Hell, on countless occasions she'd more than blatantly suggested he was gay. Even on their first meeting, their first road trip. But this… this kiss was more intimate than all the pornography in the world, and ten times the turn on. She had to look away – but couldn't.

The free hand continued down in an anxiety-causing crawl, floating across her collarbone to graze barely the side of her generous breast as he found her ribs once more. The kisses had returned to both on and around her mouth, sporadic, pulling away, light graze of teeth, tongue easing apart her lips. Hunger pang twisted Mary's gut, riding up into her chest to steal her breath, and down into her core to burn her without flame, to consume her. She tried to swallow, mouth suddenly dry. What had begun as a scoff to Marshall's less than blatant, far from competent attempt at seduction had spiraled down into a sense of the Twilight Zone.

"Damn, Marshall…" she croaked, barely a whisper through the cotton of mouth, the crack of her own chapped lips. "Where'd you learn to kiss like _that_? Been holding out on me, have you? Er, well, holding out knowledge-wise…" she corrected with a clearing of her constricted throat and attempt at normalcy. A blush heavy and hot washed over her. Mary could not help but take detailed note of his ministrations, both hand and mouth, and even discovered his eyes – though she could not quite see them – were hypnotic in their intensity. The girl's mesmerized stare in return declared as much, and Mary knew those blue irises could hold captive the unwary prey. Even the wary ones.

Cravings long forgotten began to stir in Mary, and more than mere sexual desire fluttered in her belly. An eroticism burning within held her bound, and she found herself taut with expectation, nerves strangled in this intimacy of Marshall so compelling she thought she would shatter with the slightest touch.

Unable to withstand the intensity, Mary pulled her eyes down to follow instead the trail his hand had been steadily blazing down his date's side. This time she understood his touch was not one of awkward shyness, but of incredible tenderness, underscored by a fierce control of something frighteningly passionate. Instinct enlightened her that bit of knowledge right at that very moment, a fact she could have appreciated learning at a previous day and time. Revelations of everything at once were leaving her woozy, along with sudden awareness of her partner's extreme, hidden masculinity. Oh God, how blind had she been all these years? At another time, to learn this fact would have lent her to quip about pimping him out to fund the office's booze rations, but at the moment she could only take in the truth that her hands – hell, her whole damn body – were shaking, her breath was shallow, and all she could fixate upon were those long, deceptively strong fingers defining the woman's outline with the reverent touch of artist.

A car drove past them in a creep, searching an address most likely, and Marshall pulled away and to his left as he glanced over his shoulder at the interruption. But Mary did not catch his expression, nor that of his date. She had frozen, the tingles darting throughout her body screeching to a halt in shock. Those achingly familiar hands so foreign in this new light had ceased their roving, had settled protectively, lovingly palming the side of the woman's obviously, several-month pregnant belly.

Mary fainted.


	6. Ch 6: Longing to Travel Both Roads

**Disclaimer:**Were they mine, I'd not make Marshall suffer quite that way, quite that much, nor quite that long. And were David Maples – to whom they _**do**_ belong – back, I've a feeling his treatment of Marshall would be a bit different as well.

**Author's Note:**To a few of you I mentioned things that would be brought out in this chapter, but they didn't quite make it in here. Hoping for the next. And the ending… it went somewhere in the last few lines that I hadn't anticipated, but the character's muse, s/he spoke to me and said, 'here; this is how this has to go.' So forgive if the direction seems counterproductive, but it will find its place in the story.

_**As always, r**__**eviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts!

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 6: Longing to Travel Both Roads**

"What the hell happened to _you_?"

Mary cast a glare at Marshall as she limped her way past his desk to her own 9:33 Monday morning. Bruised, battered, aching in places she didn't even know she _had_ muscles in… And it was all _his _fault. Every bit of it. Including two nights of peace-destroying insomnia.

He owed her. Big time.

"Where's mine?" she asked accusingly, changing the subject with a pointed nod toward his _Coffea Kiva_ cup just set down by his keyboard. Settling herself without waiting for his reply, Mary busied with shifting items about her desk, refusing to settle like a bird on an unstable perch. Her perch had been set afloat on some sort of torrent ocean, and she couldn't get her bearings.

And it was… All. His. Fault.

"Seriously," she reverted, hands still flapping about, unable to simply be. "You stopped there again and didn't bother getting me a coffee?" A cast glance at her partner gifted her with an expression crossed of incredulous and bemusement. Tinge of fear to boot, upon further speculation. Under normal circumstances that would have been cause for smirk and commentary, a certain level of selfish pride for having brought him off kilter. Had she not already been more than off kilter herself, that is.

And it was… All. His. _Fault_.

_ Goddamnit_; her weekend had been shot all to bloody hell after that episode Saturday night. Hell; for forty-two minutes she couldn't string four words together coherently – in her own fucking mind! They'd left while she was out that whole twenty seconds. Yeah, she'd passed out – it had been just overwhelming, the number of sights and thoughts she was supposed to take in in that short span of time. Marshall, kis– _doing _what he was _doing_… the _way_ he was doing it. That was a shocker, all right. Mary didn't even want to _think_ about how her traitorous body reacted to that, either. But then, to add to the hellacious mix the sight of… of… that girl-child! With – God, dare she recall the not-so-little fact – child! And Marshall was… She couldn't think of anything else since then.

This was all his fault.

Mary took a deep, slow breath, trying to calm the frenzy her thoughts had whipped her heart rate into. It was all too much, and now she was paying for it profusely. Bumps and bruises and soreness. And she thought a strained muscle or two from the contortions in her car, the gear shift and other protruding factors and their unforgiving engagements with her flesh. All as she had climbed around in the thing in order to spot him more clearly. Thus… his fault. Indubitably.

The wonderfully entertaining snark she had been preparing to have at hand – after running into him and his companion so unexpectedly – that had been an utter failure. For not only did he fail to fail as she had expected, but the whole episode had backfired in ways Mary could have never, in a million years, imagined. Marshall, kis– doing that _thing_ he was doing (she couldn't even think the word, it was too visual, even now)… Well, hell… She couldn't quite view him the same. After five years of partnership, she was faced having to see him as a _man_, and that wasn't something she was prepared to do. After that… that _display_… a certain connection in her head lit up, and she had been forced to briefly imagine Marshall with that girl – or with _anyone_ – doing the same things she and Raph had done –

Well, it just didn't bear thinking about. Yes, she'd known he was a man, in theory, but accepting something abstractly and then being bitch slapped with the reality of it... Envisioning Marshall in any sort of sexual liaison, and not one she could find fault and comedic laughter over, that was a place she'd never before entertained. She wanted to find juvenile and poor quality in what he'd done – something she could razz him about for months – but her luck… He just _had_ to… to know… what he was doing. To the point even _she_ could _feel_ it. A half block away.

What he'd done, it wasn't her thing. Not really. She wanted and needed her men to be masculine, to attempt a control that matched her own power and strength. She needed and enjoyed a man who exuded Alpha dominance, even if she would end up the leader. And Marshall wasn't that by any means; he was the sensitive type, the luring, the asking over the taking. Aggression and hot passion ruled her libido, but even so, Mary had to admit that even her body responded to his method… meaning she couldn't make fun of him. Not for something that touched a nerve deep within her.

So now she had to see Marshall – _really_ see him – as a non-Ken Doll being, with actual human interactions and urges and physicality that went beyond a little chaste making out in the back of her car with his former TA at a high school basketball game. It was a realistic image she wasn't ready for, and yet now he'd forced her to confront the fact her partner wasn't her innocent lap dog…

Mary Shannon was never at a loss for words. Nor was she ever in fear of what to say. But this time, there were no words fitting. At least, none that were coherent. Part of her wanted to fall into bitchiness, a safe refuge for her. But even that energy couldn't be brought to heel. He had, in one simple act, brought her to an incoherency that left her with the greatest of unease. And Mary hated unease.

It was a weakness.

And it was all Marshall's fau–

"What is _with you_ this morning?" His words were measured, befitting the conversational skills of a negotiator with the armed and mentally unstable. Did she look like she was going to crack?

"Shut up, numbnuts," she bit, but lacking any power behind it. "I didn't get much sleep last night." That was an understatement. Between Saturday and Sunday nights, she had had perhaps forty-seven minutes of actual sleep, and even then it was troubled and full of images not safe for office chatter.

God, she was going to have to get laid. Immediately.

And bleach her mind of that _other_ thing, entirely, over which she _didn't _sleep…

She did not want think about that, nor the implications. It somehow… hurt. And today, she may just have rule as Queen of Denial. Possibility of Confirmation left her in a panic; she would not bring it up. Wasn't it better to forget she'd seen it at all, act as though her entire relationship with her best friend hadn't just been turned inside out with the revelation that he was going to be a –

Pulled from her reverie by Charlie's excited monologue with Jennifer from the Phoenix office, Mary noticed Marshall still watching her with a sort of fear frozen on his face.

"What?" she grouched, unsteady in her nerves. Even on top of her game, talking to him this morning was going to be rough. Mental reruns of protruding bellies harped on her every consideration to speak with him. Without rest, she was even more on edge.

"Is everything… all right? Besides the deprivation of REM stage of sleep, I mean." Genuine worry was written on that face of whimsy and painfully mannered politeness. A hint of guilt washed over her, but quickly diminished. She was too tired to ease his concern.

"Not particularly, no," she confessed, taking on the attitude of making him aware she was annoyed. It was preferable to feeling out of sorts. Gathering herself with a sense of self-righteousness, she went on. Head cock to the side and slightly back; superiority in her voice that didn't match her insides.

"Ever thought you knew someone, knew them real well, beyond question, and then – then they just shock you?" Breath of cocky this time, best to cover the twist in her gut. His expression of waiting with baited breath seemed to feed her bravery. "I mean, take for example the 'best friend.' One would conceivably expect the best friend in a relationship to share intimate details as such that would be, let's say, life altering."

When he still merely stared at her, wary, the desire within for peace of mind and his denial of the entire thing overthrew caution or reason, or even the very validity of the answer causing more disruption. Absence of a denial could lead to more than simple sleep loss, but Mary was in gear for answers she expected, and thus never did it cross her mind the ferocity of feline that might be let out of the proverbial paper bag.

"Things like… oh, I don't know… the fact that they were _about to become a father_." She winced with the phrase. "A best friend or partner would expect to know about that sort of thing. _Right?_" Pitch higher than normal, teeth gritted in anxiety, nerves.

Comprehension seemed to dawn in him suddenly. A multitude of emotions flicked instantaneously across his face, finally settling on a stone, poker expression which forestalled any reading. Somehow that lack of tell put her on edge even more. Remaining mute, his eyes studied, narrowed, eased, blinked. A nervousness abruptly consumed her, and Mary realized her mistake at once. This was not how she should have approached the subject with him. By absolutely no means. The ball was now in his court, his control.

And she had a very real sense she wasn't going to like where this was going.

**-o-**

He'd sensed she was off kilter the moment she'd limped into the office. A bad mood? Most likely. But Marshall was adept at fending off her foul dispositions, and today would be no worse, no different. Over the weekend he'd made peace with his hand in life, had come to some kind of terms that left him, if not exactly happy, at least not pained. It was a start, and with that came the encouragement that there was hope for him.

Normalcy turned to concern once she'd gone beyond commentary of lack of sleep, then wariness as her topic filtered into specifications of friendship… sharing of intimacies… fatherhood. At her accusing glare, everything fell together, and Marshall felt the impact of an emotional punch to the solar plexus. He didn't know when or how, but there could be no doubt Mary had seen him with Shae at some point this weekend. They'd gone out for dinner Saturday night, then a hand-holding walk along the grounds of the Veterans' Memorial. Yesterday they had picnicked during her lunch break at a nearby park, then after work they had caught an outdoor double feature at a park showing sponsored by a local kids' theatre troupe.

And Mary had seen them. Had seen Shae. And her condition.

He didn't want to get into this discussion now. In point of fact, he didn't want to get into this discussion _with her_. At all. _Ever_.

For a long minute he said nothing, and the silence hung in the office air with the levity of a cast stone. Then his face turned hard. Hard because the alternative was too painful to allow, the need to explain, the pressing _want_ to remedy everything, confess his trespasses. Those weren't allowed. Not in this reality now composed about him, its rules of universe diligent in their adherence. The option for that comfort had been revoked the moment he'd made the conscious decision to move on with his life. She had no right to make him feel guilt for it.

"Not that it's any of your business –"

"– and he's here!" Charlie's announcement to the room reverberated as he waltzed through toward the door, breaking off Marshall's darkly-laden reply. Stan exited his office as well, attention on the door as Charlie escorted their suited visitor in, greeting earnestly until Stan made his own welcome.

Marshall caught the generalities, standing to accept the federal agent's hand in introduction. His mind, however, was still upon the conversation broken open but not yet explored. Not sure if a reprieve was ultimately the best, he took it as a mandatory alternative to the fight it was about to become. Anger was better than the pain he'd felt off and on for months, and her tone had set the direction any answers from him would take. Best to walk away before the verbal punches flew.

Congregating into the conference room behind Mary's desk, the three marshals and special agent settled into business.

"Juan Octavio has been the subject of an investigation involving the recent execution-style assassinations of three FBI Legat agents in Bogota, Columbia. He was implicated in the Cristo Cartel trials six years ago, but evidence was sparse where he was concerned, and he was one who slipped through."

Marshall immediately recognized the trial and the connection to why Special Agent Paul Jameson had come to pay their little Albuquerque office a visit. Stan met his eyes briefly, their discussion wordless and yet fully disclosed between them. _Let Agent Jameson get to the point_, Marshall thought. He knew the connection; it was the request that left him curious.

"Two weeks ago a plot was uncovered regarding a coup that included the disposal of the American ambassador to Columbia, as well as several key political figures. Octavio is said to be behind this as well, possibly on behalf of the Cristos, perhaps independent motives. However, new information has surfaced that his American wife, Cassandra, had actually performed the executions of the agents, as well as is intricately involved with the current plot." Agent Jameson paused, took a deep breath, and glanced at each marshal in turn. Marshall could see this hit the agent personally. He knew the burning desire that could consume one when a fellow officer, agent, marshal had been lost due to some out-of-reach criminal. But again, he waited.

Mary was not so patient, however.

"All right; so what does this have to do with the U.S. Marshals Service?"

Paul Jameson looked at her with tired eyes, far too wizened for the early-thirties' face that accompanied a lineman's build and six-foot frame. Gray irises, brown regulation-cut hair, black somberiety. "Juan Octavio's right hand man was rumored to have had an affair with Octavio's wife, Cassie. Octavio was going to literally kill him over it. That henchman was Elkwood Alverez."

When Mary's face said blatantly she still didn't get the point, Stan interceded.

"Alverez, partly due to the threat of death from his leader, flipped on Octavio and the entire Cristo Cartel at the trials. In turn, he was granted a new life in the United States. In hiding."

"He's WitSec?"

"Mine," Marshall clarified, "just before you came aboard." He turned his attention back to the agent. "What do you need? Alverez's done his time on the stand," he stated pointedly. An undercurrent of protectiveness for his witness shone through.

Jameson was easing Marshall immediately, hands placating in gesture. "We completely agree, Marshal. We're looking for information, not testimony."

"Meaning?" Stan's inquiry suggested he wanted to get on with this. Though Jameson seemed cooperative and knew his job, the Chief was always a little leery when the Bureau came a'knockin' at his secretive door.

"Meaning, we would like to talk to Alverez. He was close to Cassie, and now she's disappeared. No detection in over four months. We need to know how to find her, and what to expect when we do. We're afraid she's simply finishing up the last touches on a larger plan, one that now includes figures from both countries." His unspoken meaning was clear; not only would more agents and expatriates be at risk, but an international incident could be lurking in this coup.

The agent didn't miss the long look between McQueen and Mann, but knew when to hold his piece until brought in. He didn't need to wait long, as Marshall slowly exhaled and offered, "What do you specifically need to know?"

**-o-**

Armed with a list of preliminary questions, Marshall found himself once again in the driver's seat, I-25 North lulling his thoughts into the past, into a time before his whole world was tossed upside down by the woman riding next to him, her own mind also otherwise occupied. Elden Kirkwood had agreed to meet them that afternoon, the location a safe, unimposing sanctuary. Marshall couldn't help but find dark humor in the choice of meet-ups, but kept such considerations to himself. The drive was blessedly quiet, and he hoped to keep it such.

Considering the situation, Stan requested Mary accompany him to Santa Fe. Curiously, she did not ask for a more extensive background on Kirkwood née Alverez. When Stan phoned forty-two minutes into the drive, she answered, accepted the information, disseminated it to Marshall without elaboration, then returned to her own musings. It was a strange trip.

They arrived nearly a quarter hour early, the building empty but for a lone sister kneeling in prayer near the altar. At their discreet entrance, she rose, genuflected, then disappeared through a side door, leaving them alone in the century-old chapel.

Mary seemed her usual annoyed, the decision to come along for this interview clearly not her own, clearly not her choice. But she also seemed preoccupied, and Marshall was not going to intrude upon her thoughts. He had his own disturbing his peace, thank you very much.

Leaving her near the door in her haphazard pacing, he made his way along the right aisle, reaching the point of his interest with a quiet awe. For long minutes he stared at the beauty before him, marveling at the craftsmanship, the physics accomplishment, and the implied hope in its creation. So lost in the structure, he did not consciously notice Mary's joining of him until she spoke.

"So what's with the stairs?" Casual, indifferent. Conversation starter, he thought. Without seeking her face, he abbreviated an explanation, leaving out virtues that would give cause to her sarcasm. He didn't need it now, and would prefer it not be applied to this particular, personal favorite.

"This is the famous Staircase of Loretto Chapel. Known as the Miraculous Staircase, considering the history behind it." When he said no more, Mary seemed taken aback, her voice questioning.

"What, that's it? That's all you have to say about it?"

He shrugged, still not looking at her. "It's a manifestation of faith, Mary. Much if not all of its creation in the late 1800's can be argued away by science." He studied the double helix structure with two 360 degree turns to the balcony. Aged, worn. "But it makes it no less a beautiful work of art, and representation of the act of faith."

Another few minutes passed, Marshall losing his train of thought again while posing other questions of faith upon the symbol before him. _Ask and ye shall receive_, came the unbidden colloquialism. But he _had_ asked. And by far had not received. And would not. And such was life.

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

Her voice was soft, yet even so it broke the stillness of the sanctuary with a jab to his heart. He could play that he didn't know to what she was referring, but they both knew the subject matter heavy on both their minds. It had not even been distinguished in the earlier conversation at the office, but there was no doubt what lay there pressing and suffocating. When he did not respond, she continued.

"Or were you just going to wait until you had 'Bring Your Kid to Work Day' to mention the fact that you were g-going to be a… father." She stumbled over the last few words, as though her mouth had suddenly dried and she'd lost her breath.

Finally he turned his head to catch her face. Any residual anger he had dissipated instantly. Forlorn, lost… she looked hurt, vulnerable. Like he felt.

"Mare, I…" Hand swept roughly over his face, trying to clear remnants of feelings best left untouched. When he looked back at her, he caught her odd expression, her eyes centered not on his eyes, but on his mouth, as though studying, waiting for what vocabulary would fall from it that would explain everything and the world to her. When her gaze rose to his, he noted the rare blush that brushed across her sun-kissed cheeks. He had to close his own eyes for a second to regain control; he'd made a promise to himself, a silent one to Shae. Unable to follow both his mind and his heart, he'd committed to a different path, new and full of possibilities. That did not mean it would be easy.

Once more composed, he opened his eyes to find her wandering nervously about, not straying far but avoiding his look.

"Thought I couldn't be trusted with something like that?" she bit back, still not looking. But her voice conveyed more hurt than bite, and she stared intently at her fingers' inspection of the staircase railing. "Thought I'd go hunt down your girlfriend and interrogate her?" Thumb flicked hard against an imaginary spot as though chipping off a foreign attachment.

Sadly, he _did_ think that – to a point. He knew had she known about Shae, Mary would have investigated her at the least. Because that's what Mary _does_. And he wasn't ready with any answers for himself, much less her.

"Shae and I are… complicated." It was the best he could provide, his usual arsenal of descriptors failing him in lieu of the subject matter. God, he did _not _want to be discussing this, and most definitely not with her. Not now; not when it was so new a path and promise. Not when the cuts were still raw and exposed.

"Didn't look so complicated Saturday night." Edge of sardonic humor… only cloaking a sense of abandonment. He knew her well. But this time, he didn't have the phrases that would comfort her. He tried to recall Saturday night, but there numerous times she could have seen them, and her spit of this notion suggested something very obvious. He tried to think.

"Followed your boy Jackie Mason from a questionable encounter at Coney's Pizzeria." Her change of subject threw him, its speed whiplash for the mind. Confusion crossed his face until she followed up, the connections coming together and revealing her earlier insinuation.

"He was dealing something with someone he didn't want seen, so I followed him." Eyes still focused on the varnish her thumb pad was polishing. "Stopped in for a long visit in an alleyway down by Thai Pan restaurant." She stopped. And really, need not have said further.

_Oh, dear Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Why of all times… _Deep breath, grip on the railing, regroup… No wonder she'd put everything together, knew he wasn't just out with a friend, why she sounded so, so… hostile beneath her words. He would need to know what happened with Jackie, but for the moment, that could wait. If it had been a pressing matter, it would have come up before now.

"Mare…" It came out in a strangled sigh, low and pleading. Pleading for what he knew not, just that he needed her to understand.

"You know, I told you about Raph. When he and I first hooked up. And all the other cowboys who lasted more than three dates."

Yes, she had, and he hadn't wanted to know. But he'd considered his feelings on that selfish, and instead had listened. Because she had needed him to listen. But this was…. Different. Complicated. Just as he'd stated.

He tried for a different tactic. "I don't… tell you everything about my life," he said finally, mustering courage and a solidity to his voice that cloaked the strain at its core. "Some things I keep… private. Actually," and here he brought in matter-of-fact, observation to matters true that she'd most likely never taken much attention.

"There's much you don't know about my life, Mary." His voice softened even further, lower, a wisp of sorrow enveloping the revelation even to himself. "You never bother to ask."


	7. Ch 7: Cartography, Spoken & Not

**Disclaimer: **Think I'll just adopt Marshall, then emancipate him so that there wouldn't be any of that questionable activity due to statutes… _**What?**_ -_blinks_-

**Author's Note: **Circumstances dictate our every action.

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts!

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 7: Cartography, Spoken & Not **

Heat flashed instantaneously, washing her paling face in furious blush. A kick to the stomach would not have hurt as much as those few words from Marshall, of all people. How could he say that? To her? His best friend?

Implications began swirling through her mind. A sense of panic assailed at the evolving understanding that their partnership – according to him – had honestly been so much more lopsided than she'd ever imagined. It was a sick feeling, one of gurgling bile creeping up her chest, throat. Mouth floundered in a mime's routine, seeking some form of verbiage to call his soft statement into question. When none sounded, she looked to her eyes to convey… what? Affrontedness at his suggestion? Apology for his perception?

Conveying nothing perhaps but bewilderment, Mary stared him, reading his profile with conflicting emotions. Still bowed over the railing, hands steepled on the railing, forehead braced on his fingers. Silent contemplation, eyes closed, brow furrowed in… thought, pain. Then, barely audible…

"It's not mine." A startled noise escaped her throat, eyes widened further, shock once more reverberating through her body. At her insensible vocalization, Marshall repeated his declaration, raising his voice only a few decibels. Physically he remained the same, a pose she now viewed as… beaten.

"The baby. It's not mine." Pause. Weary. Heavy sigh. "I told you it was complicated." Cavernous chapel parameters knocked the revelation all about, echoed in her head. It was enough to send her reeling were it not for the flood of strange relief that flashed through her. Even his paper cut admonishment earlier fell to the bottom of her thoughts, something to fester and come back later in full nag. But for now, all that mattered was that the baby wasn't his. Why that mattered so much to her she couldn't – and wouldn't – say. She latched onto the main point she had made earlier, the bone of contention these last 39 hours: he hadn't kept impending fatherhood from her. He hadn't kept something so life-changing from her. She was still his best friend, still the one he told everything, right? Everything impor–

Or did he? If what he'd said earlier…

She looked at him again, harder this time. Taking in the man bent upon the curvy spruce, a note of defeat in the draped posture. But she could not see beyond the renewed ability to breathe again. She had questions for him, jumbled in their efforts to overrun the others and dislodge from her throat. They tumbled in a single, hell-bent haste of breath.

"Then who's responsible? Did you know? Doesn't that bother you? Why are you with –"

Interrupted by the entrance of one Elden Kirkwood, Mary watched, astonished, as Marshall's entire demeanor changed to one of strength and confidence. Only with careful study did she notice the underlying weariness his business-like façade blanketed. And for over an hour, Mary felt as though she were walking on the bottom of the ocean, sensory overload and yet… deprived. It was a good thing this was Marshall's witness, because she couldn't focus well enough to say more than was necessary.

Mary heard the questions, the answers; supplied the requests for details when Marshall paused to jot something down. But emotionally she was absent, having caught the Merry-Go-Round of Marshall's Current State of Affairs Amusement Park, unable to jump off. But they had a two-hour drive before them, and he would not be able to escape or find refuge in interruption. She wanted, needed, answers.

**-o-**

Twenty-three minutes into I-25 South. He was mildly surprised she'd lasted that long, though he had foolishly hoped she would have forgotten entirely about asking. Possibly compromised witness, the local Bureau field office panting after a convoluted case. He'd figured her mind would be running rampant over the opportunity to shoot someone in the near future. No such luck was his, however, and he'd let loose the tension built in him at the realization of his fear: she'd asked. She'd danced around the question in every manner possible, covering all aspects but the direct query. All before she'd succinctly said: _I don't understand how you could be seriously dating this girl who's pregnant with someone else's kid._

"Mary, I –" He did _not_ want to have this conversation with her. But how could he not answer her? Besides the fact she would dog him until he did – and it would be best to get it out of the way so they would not have to discuss it ever again – a part of him wanted her to understand. Perhaps a foolish, childish reason beneath it all. Still, better now than later, when she'd had more time to conjure questions and questionable scenarios.

He struggled for the words, eyes roaming about the road before him for inspiration. Latching onto an idea, his brows raised in a teaching expression. Deliberate, instructional timbre.

"I don't see Shae as a woman pregnant with another man's child," he explained slowly, enunciating every few words. "I see Shae as a woman, a beautiful woman, inside and out. She's got a wry sense of humor and a gentle nature. She has deep chestnut hair and a south Georgian drawl, and she has a child. One that's not been born yet, but that makes no real difference." Quick glance cast revealed Mary simply listening, watching him. No reproach, no awaiting sarcasm, just… poised to listen. Eyes to the traffic, he went on.

"See, Mary… I don't see her pregnancy as some disease like you seem to; her baby is a part of her family, no more, no less. It doesn't define her. It's not _who she is_." Trying for empathy, he pulled her into the analogy. "Just like you have Jinx, and Brandi… They're your family, a part of your life, whether you're happy about it or not. But they're not _who you are_. Any man who dates you has to accept things that are a part of your life – the important and the undeniable things. Your job – it's the important fragment of your life you would never part with. For him… for anyone. Your family… try as you might, you can't deny them. And Shae – her baby is both. She's pregnant for a temporary time; but she's already a mother in her heart; her son or daughter just hasn't arrived yet."

He paused, hoping that she understood what he was saying. Peripherally her image said she was thinking. Listening. No response yet.

"So what I'm saying is…" He sighed. "I'm seeing this wonderful woman, who in five and a half months will become sleep deprived and stressed and possibly depressive for a while. But I'm not dating her pregnancy, Mary; I'm dating _her_."

Hum of the engine and muffled air stream filled the void left when he finished. It was the best he could describe it, the only way he could explain. He only hoped she didn't ask for more details, because he wasn't ready to give them. Didn't have them himself.

Assuming from her accusations earlier, Mary had seen Shae and him outside the restaurant, and the entire show he must have projected. He couldn't bear to think about that right now, the scene his partner had witnessed, and one surprisingly not ridiculed. Shae's condition must have derailed that avenue of commentary. Not that his talents in said area were the greatest of his concerns from that night.

Marshall considered his date that evening. All through dinner Shea'd been flirtatious, expressing in no uncertain terms her attraction for him, her desire of him. And he was only a man, after all, and one whose heart had been broken, who needed to know he was wanted by _someone_. So he'd allowed her advancements, encouraged them, even. And when she'd kissed him just outside the door of the restaurant, he'd reacted, desperation for the intimacy, the affections. But he'd had no intention of more than the initial kiss, until he'd drawn back and Shae had all but latched onto him, pulling back with heavy disappointment marring her beautiful, vulnerable face.

"Apparently _she_ doesn't have a problem with it." Mary's voice was mostly flat, stating. But Marshall could hear the undertone of… something. He couldn't quite place it.

"What do you mean?" he queried, turning for a moment to read her body language. But Mary was staring ahead, then out the side window, seemingly lost in thought. But listening. Listening for his replies.

"Having you –" Searching for the words; worrying of lip. "_Touch_ her." Uncharacteristically delicate, succinct. This wasn't like her. Mary was brazen, pointed in her thoughts and feelings about a subject, and typically rather graphic in choice of words. Not… alluding.

Honestly he wasn't sure quite _why_ Shae was pushing the physical – hormones, or maybe that was just her nature. Or maybe she needed reassurance that she was still physically attractive. Hell, it could be she still questioned that he could overlook the paternity of her child while her body still carried it. An in-your-face reminder of another man's touch.

Carefully he replied to Mary, unsure how best to phrase matters. Truthful, but not showing all his cards. Some hands had to be played close to the heart. Or not at all.

"We've been seeing each other for a few weeks. It's not… uncommon… to desire some physical affirmations after that time. Hormones play a part in hyper-sensitizing those… needs." Marshall's efforts to cultivate just the right phrasing were strained; Mary didn't appear to notice. She was focused on her explanatory tour of his situation.

"Needs you feel quite comfortable meeting, I see." Only a hint of accusation. Or… something else.

"_Mary…_" he warned. He absolutely did not want to go there. Not with her. Not now.

"Sorry; I shouldn't have asked." Honestly contrite, regretful. Quiet. He wasn't sure what had gotten into Mary, but something was bothering her, above and beyond his delay in telling her about Shae. Would it have started a return to the sarcastic woman he knew were he to tell her the reality of his 'meeting Shae's needs'?

Marshall reflected briefly just why he'd been putting off Shae's nudges to the bedroom.

He was honorable, and didn't want to rush things. Or because he wanted to be sure he _did_ take her to bed for the right reasons. As was his nature, right time, right reasons. Especially with her so confused and stressed and so recently broken up out of a long term relationship.

Or was he not attracted enough to her yet? She was definitely desirable; he found the pregnancy an odd addition – neither bad nor good – just odd. Odd because he could not rein in his traitorous thoughts to what if it had been his child – how would he feel? Would caresses of that protrusion of life be more… amazed? Was the simple beauty of growing life not enough for him? Marshall… a father. If he were honest with himself, the thought was nearly aphrodisiacal in nature. And a part of him wanted desperately to have that opportunity to experience that emotional high. But he wouldn't let his heart go there, dwell on a future lost to him with the connection that had always mattered. And Shae – it was too soon to do more than entertain the next date, the next dinner.

"You're not mad at me… are you?" Broken from his musings, Marshall chanced a look at her. Worry lines etched themselves between her brows. Genuinely concerned he was angry. He offered a small smile.

"Nothing to be mad about," he answered softly. Relief eased some of the tension in her face, but she still appeared worried. But instead of pursuing it, she returned the peace offering and faced away to watch the landscape, lost once more in her own world of contemplation.

Catching brief glimpses of golden hair framing an apple cheekbone and stubborn jaw, Marshall's inner dealings drifted back to reasons, and he forced himself to consider one more option as to why he still had not allowed Shae her request…

Was it because he couldn't quite let go of his desires in another direction? He wouldn't sleep with Shae if there were going to be three people in that bed. In previous relationships, that had never been a problem – they hadn't been conscious efforts to move on without Mary. The kissing and affectionate caresses with Shae – it was all as much to give her comfort and reassurance as it was testing himself, committing himself to turning his focus on her.

He was offering Shae what she desperately needed – a sense of being wanted, of being admired and desired. Not much different than he himself needed. But for different reasons, and perhaps it was that differentiation that kept him from continuing on. He liked being able to give that to her, and he _did_ find her very attractive, meant his pettings and kisses of affection and interest. He also meant what he'd told her – they needed to take it slow. Just… his reasonings were rather more selfish in some respects. But he wanted to be able to give himself over to her with a clear conscience and an open heart, not one still hijacked by feelings that lay elsewhere. He would not demean the act with her – one that would not be an acknowledged one night stand – by sleeping with her before he could allow for _any_ emotional ties that chose to be knotted to be free to do so. And until he could react to her out of strict _reaction_ to _her,_ and her alone, he wouldn't put either of them into that place of intimacy. If he was going to be with her, he needed to be truly _with_ her, not simply beside her in bed with his heart or mind or soul elsewhere… longing… lonely… grieving.

She'd wanted him to go home with her, wanted _him_. And though he longed for the physical gratification, the appreciation… though he'd enjoyed giving her the acute affections she'd so needed there against the wall, the appreciation she'd been left without for some time, he couldn't bring himself to follow through. He'd told her it was too soon, that he wasn't ready (how true on several levels), and that they needed to take things slowly. Her hormones were raging, and it was a lot harder to decline her proposition than he'd have ever imagined; she didn't want to take no for an answer.

But he had declined. And so he'd gone home alone, worked up, but not for her_. Shae_ – Gaelic… the Supplanter. Oh, the irony. With that thought, he'd taken a cold shower, reminding himself to forget, to give an earnest chance to Shae. That's exactly what he was doing. And now he had Mary to contend with in the mix of things, far too soon before he was ready. He still didn't have the answers.

"I… guess I see why you didn't tell me." Continuing to face away from him. Just as well; emotionally wrung by now, Marshall could only imagine how he looked.

"I didn't know where it was going with Shae. What would be the point in sharing that sort of information if things didn't work out between us? We're still… early… into the relationship. I just wanted to see how matters progressed, see where we stood before displaying our association to anyone." God; even to himself he sounded clinical and detached. How could he say what was heavy in his heart, that he had no idea how or if he was going to achieve with Shae that desperate need that haunted him in the bitter hours of the night.

_That need to belong to someone, to be a part of someone's life, someone who wants and needs you and turns to you for guidance and simply being there._

**-o-**

Mary's breath caught. Forcefully, slowly, exhale… steady breathing again…

He'd not meant to say it aloud, she could tell. A feeling crossed her that he didn't even notice he had spoken the words that stiffened her spine, pulled on a heart that she'd buried deeply beneath years of 'seen-everything' and decades of self preserving cynicism. Marshall's personal thoughts exposed a life once craved but quickly driven into hiding. And with the remembrance of her own longings, Mary couldn't easily brush away this unintentional glimpse into her partner's far-too-giving heart.

To be needed. Enough that someone would seek you out, would long to know you…

Then the shame rose up again, that paper cut already festering and burning. He'd accused her of not bothering to ask about his life, of allowing an imbalance to define their friendship. He'd blatantly stated she didn't know much about him, that his life remained private in part to her not seeing past her own world and finding any curiosity of his.

And worse yet… he was right.

For a man on whom she relied so completely, Mary had never taken the time to know about his life outside of the United States Marshals Service. Only the bits and pieces he brought to work with him did she learn, and by default only. She couldn't escape his trivia, though often enough tuning him out was attempted. Never mind that on many an occasion such knowledge had assisted an arrest, protected a witness. Saved a life.

His life.

This life she didn't know; not really. Colorful paper animals, dances, Chinese warriors and philosophers. A multitude of languages – how the hell did he _know_ so many? His uneasy relationship with his father. A closer, easier one with his mother. Distance from his brothers. She knew practically nothing of his familial home life, damn little – apparently – of his adult, personal one.

Mary could count on one hand the number of times she'd been to his home during their entire partnership. Only once had she made it past the front door, and even then in lamplight to no more than drop off the bags she was carrying onto island counter of his kitchen. Then left in a hurry – as she always had – to meet with someone. A witness, a date, Raph… She was tired, irritated, had other obligations. So even when he offered to make her dinner, or they would stay up late to work scenarios or talk out plans, it was always the office, a diner, or so very often her own home. He could come there, surrounded by the insanity of her family and fiancé. She had important things to do there, had to be at home in case of yet another warped emergency. She had this to handle, that to… she, she… she.

He was right. She couldn't see beyond her own dramas to see him past the front he presented on the job, in their time hanging out. She saw only what he expressly showed her; those things with which she far too often slammed him over, mocked him incessantly. Had basically told him his individuality was… anything but appealing.

And that was so very, very untrue.

Mary snuck a glance at Marshall, his expression one of deep in thought, hands light on the wheel. Surreptitiously she studied his profile, taking time to note the planes of his face, the chiseled cuts of cheekbone, nose, jaw. Without censure against her, Mary could allow herself frank regard of her partner. And for a moment, by unsteady allowance, she admitted his was a handsome face, one of character. And one, she knew, full of genuine emotion. What he gave you, he meant. And that meant the world to Mary. Someone who she may have to translate metaphoric gibberish into English, but whose sincerity of what he spoke was never in question.

But she didn't know that much about his life outside her. Never delving in to ask or learn unless it behooved her quest to take the mickey out of him. A man so entrenched in life itself, awash in it, demanding in the most polite and well-mannered way possible that life give him a taste of everything it could offer. How could she never have longed to investigate this complex man who knew her thoughts almost before they were composed?

Because. Because to make an effort to know more outside of what was given daily meant she developed an attachment… one more than she already had for him. He was her best friend, the closest to a confidant she had, and she trusted him, could relate to him, could argue with him and yet still respect him when their differences emerged. Most importantly, perhaps, he understood her. And that… that was priceless. Why screw that up by pushing her nose where it didn't belong, opening the chance she'd learn something she didn't want to know, something that she didn't like? Or worse, something that negated their entire friendship?

It wasn't worth it. And until now she'd been fine with that, had easily skimmed over any occasional curiosity with a life of casual affairs and a job she loved. The skimmed surface of her partner's personality had been enough to plant himself in her heart as the one important person in her life; she couldn't imagine what sort of vulnerability she'd place herself in were she to look beyond the surface.

It didn't bear contemplating – even now. That road only held grief; the more you knew someone, the more attached you became, the more it hurt when they left you. Or betrayed you. Or forgot you.

And somehow, they always did.

Banishing those thoughts with pointed notice once more of his familiar profile, Mary recalled the very different animation of that angular face just two nights prior. And she wondered if Shae knew him, knew the intricacies of his loft where Mary had failed to peruse. Wondered if she knew the cologne he so lightly wore most days. Did she know his favorite complicated coffee beverage source? (Okay, Mary _did_ know that – _Coffea Kiva_ these days.) Did Shae read the same books as he did, learn the same hodge-podge off Cracker Jack boxes, attend theatre and orchestral concerts and all those things Mary did not?

She definitely knew a part of Marshall that Mary was unaware. Mary's eyes dropped again to Marshall's mouth, unmoving this time as opposed to in the chapel, but still just as compelling. It was the image she couldn't get out of her head, efforts be damned. Multitudes of emotions ran through her, but in the end it seemed to come back to the vision of those lips – that mouth she'd heard for years – paying a physical tribute to some girl-child against a brick wall in an old section of Albuquerque. And by any means she viewed it, Mary could not help the surreal ponder that accompanied the memory. Disjointed, flushing, shaken. Shae had known _that._ Had known that mouth when its intent was to bring about a pleasure intense and full of meaning.

Mary hadn't known that. She might not find her best friend a man she'd desire to sleep with, but she couldn't help to for once be curious about something below the surface… to know those lips.

Startled at her own mental path, Mary abruptly turned back to the window, hiding her blush.

Why did she feel she'd just opened her own personal Pandora's Box?


	8. Ch 8: A Study in Blue

**Disclaimer: **Were IPS mine… well, you get the picture.

**Author's Note: **This is primarily a transition chapter that highlights some lingering introspection. Hopefully you'll enjoy it as well.

*thanks to Enfleurage for catching my mistype; I had meant 'Ode to Joy,' not 'Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring.' "Joy" was apparently on the brain in those wee hours. Sorry, Bach!

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts!

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 8: A Study in Blue**

_Pink. _

_Uh-uh. No. Absolutely not. Just because society said pink was for girls didn't mean she subscribed to that outdated notion. And she __**refused**__ to buy pink._

_Casting aside the offending-colored dress with its delicately laced white ruffles all in miniature, her hands flicked through outfits, scrunching fabrics to the side with reckless abandon. Metal rack screeched in high pitch as each clear plastic hanger scraped along in protest. Mary was hunting, knew what she was looking for. _

_Too cutesy. Too cheap. Too froufrou. _

_Finally it caught her eye, and she pulled free the perfect wardrobe addition. Held before her in study, one hand caressing the blue pinstripe on white cotton with amusement. 1922 Yankees, satin royal blue 00 on the back. Accompanying leggings so small as to barely cover her outstretched palm. Mary smiled in accomplishment, elating in the perfect jersey from the perfect team – she was a Jersey girl, after all – for the perfect person._

"_So how are my best girls?" The phrase was breathy and sweet and full of utter contentment, brushing across her ear as his rough jaw scraped slightly on her neck, moved to her cheek. Hands enveloped from behind, sliding possessively, comfortingly around her heavy belly as full body warmed her back. She couldn't help but chuckle._

"_Redefining baby fashion," she quipped, holding the baseball jersey higher for his inspection. "Think our girl's a runner like her daddy? Or should I hit up Rock Star Baby, instead?" _

"_As long as it's not the Marlins or the Isotopes."_

_She snorted good-humoredly. "And why's that?"_

"_I want the world to know who her daddy __**is**__, not who he's __**not**__." There was love in that declaration. Pride. Arms tightened fractionally; a nuzzle to her cheek. She smiled._

"_Then maybe we should just get her a pair of cowboy boots and be done with it."_

Mary jarred awake, breath rapid and skin vibrating. The caresses around her abdomen had felt so… real. His breath – surely it had fluttered upon her ear with a chuckle she knew so well after all these years. There in the dark, covers half strewn about her, Mary lay with a hand protectively upon her flat belly, for all the world wishing in that one moment it was _his_ hand, filled with the roundness of _his _baby, his body cradling her.

A silent tear escaped the corner of her eye, her body's protest to the absence of it all.

God, what had Marshall done to her?

**-o-0-o-**

The drive to the office was almost ethereal, a fuzzy haze of blue-gray tint open before her. Minimal traffic, landscape devoid of activity. Sunrise pending, Mary absorbed the fabled atmosphere, accepting it a suitable transition from dream to reality. It left her mind somewhere between the two, an opportunity to integrate whatever message her subconscious was trying to release for her awareness.

_I do __**not**__ want to have Marshall's baby_. Emphatic. Definite. Unquestionable.

_Besides, even if I __**did **__– which I __**don't**__ – how would that even ever occur? I mean, it's not like I desire him or anything. Trying to conceive would be hell – there's just no sexual attraction there._ She snorted into the silence of her new car. _And __**hell**__ if any doctor is ever going to __**implant **__me with anything._

Mulling that thought over with appropriate derision, Mary wound her way through eerily silent streets, the sleep-depriving dream on perpetual replay in her head.

**-o-**

"You catch up with Jacked-up Jackie yesterday?" Mary discreetly avoided any reference as to why Jackie was 'jacked-up,' any mention of the time and place and circumstances under which she'd witnessed his questionable behavior. After Monday's trip to Santa Fe, both she and Marshall had avoided – by mutual, unspoken agreement – any commentary that related to his situation with Shae. Mary avoided out of sake of sanity; Marshall, she assumed, out of privacy.

Whatever the reason, it worked. For the time being, at least.

Marshall glanced up from his database search, clearly distracted by her question. "Hmm?"

"Your witness, van Gogh." Eyes rolled in exasperation.

"Van Gogh?" he asked, brows knitting in confusion.

Heavy sigh this time. "You didn't hear me the first time. Thus, deaf. Ergo, van Gogh." A proud half-grin at her clever association. Marshall, however, only smirked in that disgustingly intelligent way that said he knew something she obviously didn't, and Mary narrowed her eyes, waiting.

"Mary," he began in that infuriatingly patient tone, "Van Gogh cut off a small portion of his ear lobe. He wasn't deaf. Possibly bipolar, but not deaf."

Annoyed with her error of a seemingly brilliant analogy, Mary's feathers ruffled a bit, but she was sure her curiosity still shone through. "All right, Mr. Art History Major –"

"– wasn't an Art major –"

"– whatever. So who was the famous deaf artist who no one knew was deaf before he told them?"

"Whereas there are multiple possibilities as to whom you refer," he began, resettling himself comfortably in his chair, a grin lighting his handsome face. "Most likely you are referencing Ludwig von Beethoven, famous composer of the early nineteenth century. Controversy exists over to what degree and at what age he experienced hearing loss, and when those around him were aware of the malady, but most agree at some point late in his life he reached a stage of stone deaf, thus lending an air of amazement at his ability to compose such –"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Mary interrupted, surprised at herself that she was actually following his mini-lecture, and with interest_. Totally off your game today, Shannon_, she mused unhappily. Then to Marshall, "But more importantly, did he write anything _I_ would know?" Ah, geez. Why the hell had she just encouraged him?

Marshall's brows rose, surprised at her continued interest, but a willing participant to her continued education. "Amongst his most popular pieces, his 5th Symphony; Ode to Joy; _Für Elise_ –"

"Bless you," she quipped in.

Eyes cut to her with a smirk that blatantly said 'funny… not' with a dry delivery. But as he opened his mouth to continue, Mary cut him off, not wanting to fall into a full dissertation. They actually had work to do.

"So back to my question, Mr. Not-van-Gogh; did you ever catch up with Jackie?"

Marshall drew a deep breath and sighed, hand running roughly up the side of his face, back down to his neck. Though they had remained unusually quiet on the ride back to Albuquerque on Monday, first thing Tuesday Mary had filled Marshall in on the secluded details of her observances of Jackie Mason's actions Saturday night, and Marshall had made several trips out and about. At least one of those she assumed would have been Mason.

"No. I did not." Facial expressions revealed a certain weariness and displeasure, but all overshadowed by what Mary read to be self-condemnation. He blamed himself. How the hell he could, she didn't know, but understanding Marshall Mann meant realizing his tendencies for taking responsibility above and beyond for his witnesses – whether he knew them as he said he did, or not.

"Track was closed, and all attempts to locate him at home were to no avail. So… I'm looking at a quick trip out today if all else fares well with my _onderwerpen._" Conspiratorial grin formed. "Care to accompany me? May be an ice cream cone in it for you."

About to decline the less-than-thrilling suggestion, at the mention of cuisine bribery, Mary could not refuse. It was over one hundred blazing degrees today, a fresh heat wave breaking in the new season with pizzazz, and frozen dairy had a nice ring to it. Not to mention the added bonus of _free_.

"Fine. Let's go before I change my mind and hop the first delivery boy who tips in gelato."

**-o-**

Seven minutes into their drive, Marshall smiled to himself, covertly switching the GMC's sound system to disc as Mary prattled on with contemptuous interest about the overtly decorative tourists. Tapping to the seventh track, he awaited the initial triplet flow, that soft, haunting, sorrowful melody that bespoke longing and heartache. Slow, gentle whisper of a river carrying away promise around a bend, a drop without flare, an undercurrent subtle yet heavy, strong. And for a moment, he let the hollow yearning sweep over him. Gave himself over to the poignant before forcing himself back to the present with a harsh jerk and self-recrimination. That was done, over with. He had gone on with his life.

"What the hell is that?" As always, Marshall could rely on Mary to bring everything back into focus, his wandering mind back to task. A crooked grin full of smug pulled at his lips. He looked innocently at her, but the return glare broke any poker face he had. Back to a teaching aura, he expounded as the notes wrapped leisurely about them in the vehicle.

"That, my culturally-challenged friend, is something you _should recognize_. Per your earlier request, I am displaying the fact that yes, indeed, you do know something composed by our dear, deaf artist von Beethoven. This is his Sonata, Opus 27, Number 2. Or, by it's more common name, _Moonlight Sonata_. This is from Movement 1, Adagio Sostenuto."

Feeling good about himself, Marshall waited for the 'ah-ha!' moment from his partner. It didn't come. Puzzled, he looked back at her to see her face, a mixture of confusion, curiosity, and… introspection. When she caught him looking, she queried, "What?"

"What, what?" Surprised, he figured he knew that expression, and went on, stunned. "Are you telling me you don't know this piece?" At the shake of her head – and very genuine eyes – his balloon of ego deflated. Deep sigh. A moment of pity, for both himself and her, then a reclaiming of spirit. If she didn't know it, it was time for lesson. Brief – after all, it was Mary; she'd not tolerate large bundles of information without invitation. Not when he'd already inundated her today.

"Okay, then. This piece was written in 1801, while Beethoven was staying in Hungary at the Brunswick Estate –" Cutting himself off, he decided more popular-based history would be retained better.

"Did you know…" Ignored the pointed look she gave him. Eyes on the road. "In the film _Immortal Beloved_, actor Gary Oldman – who portrayed a young Beethoven – practiced piano extensively, daily, in order to properly mimic movement and time of the recording pianist Murray Perahia with all the pieces in the film. As a musician himself, Oldman was a stickler for accuracy of his motions. Personally, my favorite scene is when he plays this piece to a seemingly empty house, his head laid upon the body of the piano-forte to feel the vibrations as he at first bangs away nonsensically at the instrument, then falls into the soft, lulling, pained cry…"

His voice had dropped to just above a whisper. _Steady, there_, he told himself. Forcing a grip on wayward feelings once more, he looked to read Mary's eye rolling and head shake, only to find…

Hazel eyes stared at the CD player, seeing past it, reading it through its vocalizations. She was listening, intently. A momentary closure of eyes in some recognition of the storyline, then opened once more, slowly, a sad and faraway countenance. A relaxation in her body, foreign to most days in her waking and sober state. It gave Marshall an odd thrill, a sense of shared understanding. She may not have known the piece, but it spoke to her now, offered her its mournful tale.

He remained silent, allowing himself to fill with the wavering notes as he drove steadily through thinning traffic. Reminiscence of lost dreams was holding sway when her voice broke the companionable silence. Soft, thick, wispy.

"What was the Immortal Beloved?" Sitting back in her seat, she still only stared at the console, directly in front of her now instead.

He paused, suddenly dry in the mouth. For some reason beyond comprehension, he did not want to tell her. But she had asked, and despite that unspoken tragedy between them, he would answer.

"Beethoven had loved, desired a woman he could never have. Upon his death, a three-part love letter was found amongst his effects. Commonly referred to as the 'Immortal Beloved Letters' – that's what he calls her in the third letter, his Immortal Beloved – at no point was she ever identified. In place of a name, it was merely addressed to…" His voice wavered, softened. Struck at the comparison now thrown in his face, Marshall swallowed tightly. "It was addressed to, 'my angel, my all, my very self.' No one knows for certain who she was."

Nothing. Heartbeats. Living air. Then…

"He must have loved her very much," she said quietly. Contemplative. Sad.

"With his entire being."

**-o-**

"Bull dog? Yeah, he's on the backside, teching out the lines in the café."

"Thank you," Marshall offered the technician, turning to leave the clubhouse. Mary merely scowled; she'd had enough of Jackie Mason today, and hadn't even spoken to him in nearly a week. It was his fault she'd run across Marshall and… _her_… and thus was in this torrent of a conflicted relationship with her partner. And seriously fucked up dreams to boot.

Mary considered her unnerving visions of the early morning as she followed Marshall out to the truck to drive to the backside of the track. Though not much was memorable, she more than recalled the sensations of his arms about her, hands caressing her descended belly. And the baby… she'd felt his child moving in her, reacting with pleasure to her father's touch.

Her father.

Mary had no doubt Marshall would make an awesome father. Unlike James Wiley Shannon, her best friend was a man born to the role of protector, teacher. Of affectionate caretaker and guide. Unbidden a smile crept upon her face, musings calling to her humored natured. She would admit only to herself this one time: Shae was a lucky woman. She would want for nothing with Marshall, her child just as blessed beneath a lucky star. A tin, badge star.

What a privileged baby it would be who was conceived by and under the care of this fifth generation marshal. Fleetingly an image passed, residual from misty dreams but just as clear as their counterpart of reality. The grin widened, crooked to one side as miniature cowboy boots made uneven gait through the halls of her mind, elastic denim and a tin star declaring the blue-eyed blonde her role as sixth generation bad-ass badge… a legacy bestowed upon her by lineage of both parents.

"That breakfast burrito not agreeing with you?"

Mary started at the question, turning to Marshall in confusion. "What?"

He nodded to her seat, eyes flicking worriedly over her face then back to driving. "You keep rubbing your abdomen. Just wondered if you were feeling all right?" Phrased as a question, and Mary realized with chagrin her hand distractedly contracting in a light caress across her lower belly. Mirror of this morning, of her own hand mourning the flatness of her shape, the loss of her husband's gentle embrace – a husband she didn't have, created from the friend and partner she was having a hard time keeping.

"Er, no. No, I'm fine," she answered quickly, pulling herself (and her hands) together. Concentration returned to their short drive, taking in instead the guard shack at the back gate, the shed rows of stalls, the activity of grooms and exercise riders and pony horses and feed vendors. She needed to get her mind back on her job, and off of unrealistic fantasy. It had no part in her life, and made no sense to indulge in flights of fancy over something she did not even desire.

Marshall cast her an odd look as he climbed out of the truck, and Mary made mental note to mind her thoughts more closely around him. Following, they made their way through lingering horse people into the backside café, spotting Jackie only a few steps into the dining area. Business casual dress, he was armed with a small nylon bag of tools as he studied over the wagering terminal, its mechanical insides strewn about on the counter behind which he stood.

"Morning, Jack," Marshall greeted cheerfully, leaning on the counter in a relaxed state. Mary held back a foot, eyes actively surveying the room behind them at large. A few stable employees finishing up a late breakfast, occasional most-likely-owners conversing tactics with most-likely-trainers… kitchen staff wiping down tables and clearing the food bar of deep dish aluminum pans and industrial serving spoons. No threat that she could see… yet.

"Well hey, Marshall! Mary." Jackie's tone was pleasant surprise as he looked up from his chore. Tossing Mary a smiling nod in greeting, he peered back at Marshall, obviously knowing it couldn't be a good thing to have his WitSec handler show up twice in less than a week.

"So, what's up?"

Marshall, his usual tactful and diplomatic self, broached the subject directly but with form. Leaning forearms on the laminate shelving, he leaned in some to keep voice and subject discreet.

"Jack… you are aware, I know, that as part of your security and well-being – the success of the entire relocation, even – certain protocol must be adhered to. This would include, by association, the cavorting or re-introduction of a… relationship… with… certain individuals or activities from your past life." The marshal met the former biker's gaze with a frank assessment, the latter's face displaying confusion, visually calculating the subtle diatribe. Suddenly his expression cleared to one of disbelief.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa… Wait a minute," he cried, straightening with a panic setting in, hands in supplication. "Just back. The truck. _Up_. What're you talking about?"

"Just what the hell were you doing slipping bonehead gangster wannabe cash-to-palm Saturday night, asshole?" Mary, pushed beyond irritation with poor rest and crazy thoughts, found herself even less capable of patience than usual. Marshall gave her a baleful glare.

"_What?_" she snapped at him, returning furrowed brow. It wasn't his fault, but somehow the ability to restrain herself had become, well, strained. His look turned pointed and irritated, in that way only Marshall could pull off. One that made her uneasy and angrily ashamed at the same moment as though she were a willful child reined in. At her immediate silence, he turned back to Jackie. Mary turned away to study once more the patrons, arms crossing her chest petulantly, murmuring under her breath, "You'd best never teach our _daughter_ that look, damn it."

Involuntary gasp of her own caught her breathless as she realized what she'd just spoken. Blanching, she threw a quick look beside her to find – to utter horror – Marshall peering at her with concerned startlement and a hint of bewilderment. Barely finding his voice again, he continued speaking to Jackie while holding her gaze a few seconds longer.

Jaw tightened and hard swallow, Mary faced back around to the dining room, fighting down panic at her own clumsiness. God, she'd need to see a shrink if she kept _this_ up. Mulling over the intricacies of the US Government's insurance plans, Mary barely took note of the young slender woman who'd just come in the entrance. Boyish of figure and petite in stature, the girl searched the room. Spotting the tech and two marshals, she looked questioningly to Mary's right. Peripherally Mary caught Jackie's head shake, and the dark-haired girl's eyes widened, her body visibly stiffened and a practical fleeing followed.

Jarred, Mary turned to catch Marshall's similar response.

"Who was that?" "What was that about?" the partners demanded in unison.

"No one," Jackie replied anxiously. "Nothing. Just a… a friend. She's leery around strangers," he added at the disbelieving commentary. Heavy sigh, then, "Look; Corinne's had a troubled life. Nasty sort of family life. She's trying to start new here, so she's sort of head shy around unfamiliar people, particularly men. They intimidate her."

"Well that leaves _you_ out," Mary quipped toward Marshall before she could stop herself. Habit, after all. And wasn't she shooting for normalcy these days?

As usual, he merely threw a light scowl and focused back to his witness.

"If that's the case, why the signal? Why'd she run like she had some _reason_ to run?" Piercing blue eyes held Jackie's and Mary knew he was done with polite.

"Marshall, ya gotta trust me here," the older man pleaded. Voice lowered, resigned. "Hey; Corinne's ex old man used to beat the shit outta her, tried hooking her out as some sort of debt payment or somethin'. Wicked piece of fuckin' work, that guy. So she don't like new people. Looks to me to protect her. Some of these guys…" Hands spread to encompass the room, a pair of exercise riders entering, helmets loose, safety vests still Velcro'd. "Some of these guys ain't much better 'n him; some worse. I take care of her, protect her. She's like my niece or somethin'," he added at Mary's raised brow.

Discussion went on, Mary listening but saying little. He was Marshall's witness, after all, and she couldn't afford another run-off at the mouth like earlier. It was unhealthy for far too many reasons.

**-o-**

He offered a general wave as they passed the guard shack, crossing the gates and returned to the main track thoroughfare. Mary'd said little their entire visit, which was often a good thing, depending on her mood. But this silence seemed one of self-wariness, not something Marshall was used to seeing in her. It was as though she were contemplative, but not so much that she was distracted, per se. More like… she had to watch what she said. Worrying her bottom lip when she didn't think he noticed – he _always_ noticed – and brows pinching in thought only to quickly draw back as she searched about visually, ensuring no one saw her moment of vulnerability.

He'd only caught part of her muttered comment just before the expected remark upon his manhood, but it was enough. Enough to throw him off balance, question if his auditory faculties were in proper health.

_Their daughter?_

Head shake to clear his wayward ventures, Marshall forced back any credence to what he _thought_ he heard. Wishful fantasizing again, and a habit that had to be stopped. He'd spent far too long, apparently, ruminating over Shae's pregnancy, and after that conversation he'd had with Mary over the paternity of such, Marshall had had far too many ventures into 'what if' land than was healthy.

"You buy that tale about him just paying off a gaming debt?" he asked the silence of the SUV. Pulling into Interstate traffic, Marshall chanced a glance at Mary, his best friend once more caught up in thought. Not only was it not like her, but as her one confidant, he found it disturbing she could be this concerned with something and not share with him, unburden herself to him.

"You've been awfully pensive," he offered, hoping his tone conveyed genuine worry. No mood for her nasty-defense. "What's on your mind?"

If deer could take on anthropomorphic ways, perhaps humans could mimic them, and Mary's imitation was straight on with headlights blinding.

"Are you all right?" Touch of panic this time, the increasingly congested roadway and her flushed, stricken appearance battling for his attentions.

"Um, yeah; I'm fine," she finally commented, turning back to her window. Away from him. Why was he seeing more of the back of her head these days than her face? It was like she couldn't stand to see him, couldn't talk to him. Not since…

Inwardly he sighed; he didn't want to lose his friendship with Mary over this. Ironically, wasn't that why he'd given up on ever having an intimate relationship with her and gone on to find someone else to date… to marry… to raise a family with… to love? The snort of derision caught in his throat, a sickening sensation.

God… Fate had a nasty sense of humor.

**-o-0-o-**

Even the condensation was gone, the remaining beer lukewarm to the room and forgotten in light of the screen. Tissues wadded in hand, eyes red rimmed and bloodshot, sinuses swollen and cheeks streaked. Mary reclined on her couch with a throw across her legs and remote falling into the space between the arm and cushion.

He was right, she mused sadly; the most powerful was definitely the scene in the supposedly empty house, where Luigi, as she called him, had put his ear upon the key cover to feel the forceful vibrations of pounding upon the keys. The girl in the hidden chamber heartbroken as he seemed unable to play, just as she'd been told; her solemn father regretful but stoic. But then… then his fingers began to glide gently across the ivory and the story of his broken heart came alive. And the girl fell in love with the music, and then she had to go and fuck everything up by showing herself, betraying his trust…

But the part that tugged strongest at Mary was perhaps… perhaps toward the end, the confession to the Maestro of…

God, she couldn't get away from it today. Was someone – the Cosmos, maybe – trying to tell her something?

Violently wiping away fresh, hot tears, Mary untangled her feet from the blanket and gathered the empty bottles and takeaway cartons to dispose in the kitchen. Barefoot and maneuvering in the dark, she took her time to feel her way, thoughts roaming as they were wont to do these days. The remains of her ice cream bribe awaited her in the freezer, but would have to wait until tomorrow; her appetite had diminished.

"Focus, Shannon," she criticized herself. "Just coincidence. All just bloody, fucking coincidence."

The rental DVD had gone back to menu, displaying a soft light by which Mary returned to the end table. Retrieval of the disc, she filed it atop the table half-upon her keys so as to remember it in the morning. Catching sight of the other case nearby, she scooped it up as well, noting her return of _that_ particular one needed to be a bit more elusive. She'd nicked the CD out of Marshall's player when they'd returned from the track, and had listened to it repeatedly in her own vehicle as she finished out her workday alone.

What an eclectic mix he had. What wide variety, and good taste (though she'd never in a million admit to him this belief). She briefly considered asking Peter to copy the mix CD for her, then dismissed the idea. Last she needed was her sister's boyfriend ratting her out to Marshall.

Then again, maybe he didn't need the CD back just quite yet. Turning off the television, Mary shuffled her way through pitch black, eyes barely adjusting, to her bedroom. Quick ablutions in the bathroom's complete darkness, teeth brushed. Once more in half-light, she picked up her booty and made around the room. By touch, she placed the CD in the player, turned the volume low with a count of seven taps to the search, and climbed into bed.

As the strains of _Moonlight _cascaded in heavy ripples over her, Mary lay in the dark, recalling that _other_ scene in the film, her hand finding its way automatically to that concave reminder. And as she sought sleep, she could hear his Beloved whisper into his unhearing ear that she carried his child.

A final tear found its way down the side of her cheekbone, ear, jaw. It was a situation like no other in her life. No one had done anything wrong; yet everything was wrong.


	9. Ch 9: Two For Team

**Disclaimer****: **Ever mine, ever thine, ever ours… ever… not.

**Author's Note:** I have noticed the tendency of reviews falling because I do not update every couple of days, but with my writing the choices would be: write well and update when possible, or update often with poor writing. Please bear with me; sometimes the story is partially shaped by reviews, by wonderful readers who remind me of some aspect I forgot to clear up, or a titbit I'd left to the side some time back.

Also, this went somewhere not wholly expected, so please bear with the slight side rail we've ventured onto. The subject matter of last chapter seemed to creep in, but don't worry; the next chapter _should _be void of it. The banter will return then, as well. I hope.

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts!

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 9: Two For Team**

"_Mmmm_… that feels _so _good." Moans became indecipherable, words incoherent. Marshall grinned a quirk of the lips, both amused and feeling a sense of power as his methodic hands elicited such receptive responses. "_More, please_."

Dexterity was his friend as nimble fingers applied pressure… rotated… released. Dropping down further, he caressed a divot here, a nook there. Shae breathed out some form of ecstasy, bringing Marshall's lips to a full smile. It was all he could do not to laugh outright. The woman stretched out on the couch beside him, her feet alternating in his capable hands, was nearing some orgasmic level of euphoria with a simple foot rub. A small chuckle escaped before he could catch it, curiosity inquiring if she had any idea how she sounded at that moment.

Fleeting came the acknowledgement that had it been Mary receiving a foot and ankle massage, those fleeing words of pleasure _would_ have been both in healing and sexual. She could be nine months pregnant, and Marshall figured she would still find such intimate yet innocent touch arousing. He shifted position slightly, discomfort nagging with thoughts of his best friend. Yet he could not help a last mental comparison between the women: Mary might have threatened him with life and limb, possibly coerced with promises of fantasy fulfilled… but she wouldn't have said _please._

This time the chuckle shook his frame and took verbal form.

"What's so amusing?" Shae asked from the pillowed end of the couch. She pulled her forearm from her eyes long enough to check him out in his dark blue button up, sleeves rolled to elbows in blatant display of forearms taut with muscle. Her pointed brow questioning, reflecting the humor in her lips.

"Just appreciating your vocalizations of rapt enjoyment." Her answering expression was to scrunch her nose at him in the silliest, cutest bunny face, then replace her arm to blot out the gentle double-lamp light. Shae was, indeed, one of the happiest people he had ever met. She did get sad, she did hurt, but she rarely was angry or short or even biting with sarcasm. Night and day, these two women in his life. So differing, but again several traits shared, hidden and structural and defining.

Inner strength. Compassion. Wit. Pride. Honor. Foundations he continually found necessary in a woman who could hold his interest… even when he didn't want her to do.

"What're you pondering, now?" That slight Georgian drawl held the air lightly. Eyes still covered, she must have sensed his contemplation. Or, more likely, took note his floundering fingers. They sped back up.

Obviously he could not tell her precisely what was bouncing 'round his head, but neither did he want to lie to her. Settling, limited truth came the answer.

"How utterly happy and sweet you are," he remarked with a soft smile. "I don't get much of that in my days."

A throaty chuckle met his observation.

"Really, Marshall; maybe if you gave Mary one of these lovely foot rubs, she'd be so much more pleasant."

"_Mary?_" Brows rising to hairline, Marshall froze at the concept, immediate image not far from initial musing and sexual connotations. Momentarily breathing stopped. Shae took the reaction differently; eyes still hidden beneath weary limb, she was spared her boyfriend's blushing features.

"I'm telling you; I'm a woman who knows. And what I know is how much tired and achy feet can turn one into a real witch. We womenfolk aren't allowed to wear comfortable shoes in the workplace. I doubt Mary is allowed to wear tennis shoes on the job, is she?"

Finding air and directing it back into his lungs, Marshall located his voice as his fingers resumed their ministrations. "Um, no. Mary usually goes for something with a heel. She likes additional height." To further intimidate, he added mentally, but refrained the comment. Mary's top dog tendencies were not something Shae needed to learn. Not now, at least. If they continued as a couple, then at some point he'd have to let to two near each other, but for the time being, Marshall was stalling as long as possible. Unfortunately, Shae must have been reading his thoughts.

"See? And if she could, she might not be quite so… bitchy. At least to hear you tell it," she went on, interrupting Marshall's objection to the term. He'd never said as much, but then, figuring what little he _could_ tell her about his partner, that would be the consensus of mental pictures she'd compose.

"Promise me you'll offer her one of these delicious rubs," she went on, wiggling her toes and sighing happily. "And then she and I can have lunch. Soon." She paused at his silence, then added, "Promise?"

"To the massage or the lunch?"

"Both."

"That's what I was afraid of," he mumbled, and Shae laughed lowly. As he continued to work out the soreness of her arches, his mind drifted back to Shae's initial suggestion of Mary's reaction to the same procedure. Much like he had envisioned some time before, Mary's take on anything like that would simply not be the same as Shae's. Aside from the obvious additional, carnal direction she would go, Mary would still find a way to remain defensive and bristly during the whole event, never simply relaxing and enjoying the touch.

Closing his eyes, he tried to picture what it would take to convince Marshal Mary Shannon to give in to the easy, honest pleasures of kneading and soothing, to let go of the wall that prevented her from contact without her imminent control.

His hands eased. Less deep muscle, more steady, ebb and flow pressure. Slower. Much slower. More stroke and repeat over circular. Soft retreat, brushing the skin in request for interest… like tantalizing a cat's curiosity by exhibiting just a bit of attention, then drawing back and turning away. Suggesting… then rewarding with a well-placed thumb and heel of palm. Luring… then –

"God; if I weren't so worn down like a cheap shag carpet, I'd jump you right now."

"_What?_" Marshall started and eyes shot open, contemplative thoughts disappearing in a puff. Brows again high, he had turned to stare at her, eyes wide in surprise. Glancing down, he realized her feet had been abandoned for her calves, two fingers stroking sensitive flesh underside her knee. Chancing a look, he found Shae watching him from beneath the ever-present arm, a wry smile pulling one side of her Cupid's bow lips.

"I don't know how you do it," she quipped, eyes twinkling. "A U.S. Marshal who can still be flustered with the truth of how attractive and utterly enticing he is. It's cute as _hell_." Grin broadening into a charming smile, Marshall couldn't help but respond in turn.

This was why being with Shae was the right thing: she made him feel good. As himself, about himself.

"All right, then…" Before he could protest, Shae was already swinging her feet from his lap to the floor, sitting up a moment before clamoring up from the couch, only the slightest awkwardness in her movements. "Time to make the doughnuts…"

_Dinner, then,_ he thought, rising to follow. She would need help, and would allow him to help as long as she didn't have to ask him directly. Unlike Mary, Shae's reasons for not asking were not a fear of feeling incapable, but of a southern upbringing that said polite hostesses accepted help, but never requested it of their guests. Marshall was working on redefining himself.

She never accepted for anyone to do something in her place if she felt herself capable of doing so. But she let him help, and Marshall enjoyed the domesticity of the little services he could perform as Shae shuffled around the tiny kitchenette of her off-campus housing. Fuzzy slippers now in place, long, wavy chestnut tresses pulled back in a relaxed, nape-line ponytail, she was every bit the softened mother-to-be.

"You know," he began, the voice one often used to just above subtly inform someone of a more obvious, better way to go about matters. Long arms reached around her on both sides, acquiring sandwich baggie in one hand, package of crackers in the other. "You could let me make dinner for you. Or we could even," he added pointedly, "go out for the evening."

Without turning, Shae continued mixing ingredients, the patient smile evident in her voice. "No, Marshall; I'm gonna keep doing everyday things while I still can, but you're so very sweet for offerin'. Besides…" She sucked the errant cream of chicken soup from her thumb, rinsing then tossing the can into a plastic recycle bin. "I've had a bugger of a craving for Momma's homemade tuna casserole all week."

They worked fairly well together, Shae directing Marshall as needed. He felt useful, to a point, but more as a side rather than half a team. Reminding himself he had had years to have developed that in-sync partnership with Mary, Marshall rolled with the progress. She was amusing to watch, really, and light-hearted pleasure warmed spots cooled by the discourse of his days.

"The secret's in the three cheese topping," she suddenly announced as said condiment was being scattered atop the dish, Marshall's hand-crushed cracker crumbs following. "Gives an extra gooey aspect for the mouth's infinite joy." She chuckled, then cast a sly look over her shoulder. "Rather naughty little sentiment, I always thought."

Preparation led to baking, baking led to eating. Miscellany chatter over Civil War history and Sun Tzu, followed by dessert of instant pudding and southern colloquialisms. Tiredness showed in movements and expressions and planes of the Georgian peach's face. Acquiescing for once, Shae allowed Marshall to tend the clean-up an hour later, remaining seated at the bistro table whilst he set about wrapping, stowing and cleaning.

"Oh, Lord have mercy…" Heavy sigh accompanied her remark, and Marshall turned from the rising sink water to verify she was staying put. Surprisingly, she was, turned sideways in the chair, back against the wall and legs straight out before her, crossed at the ankles. Part of him hurt for her, even as rationale reminded the natural course of pregnancy.

She continued. "My mind says, 'Get started on Russo's Venture Capital paper now before it creeps up on you,' but my body just gives it a noogie and suggests that the couch is calling my name in intimate little whispers of seduction."

"And perhaps it is a temptation you should readily give into," Marshall agreed, delving back into task at hand. "Listen to your body, Shae." He was always reminding her this credo.

"I would, Mr. Practically-a-Doctorate-in-Everything-Under-the-Sun," she snorted back, the smile easing her weary features. "But I have two other assignments due by Wednesday and Thursday of next week – in e-Commerce and Investments, respectively. And the former is a group project, which I hate doing because we have to toy around to get everyone together. Pain in the tushy, I tell you."

Marshall chuckled, knowing she needed a bit of venting time, though her style of said relief wasn't a toxic meltdown of Chernobyl proportions. He had to grin.

"At least you're dropping to one subject next semester," he reminded her. "An online course at that. Will definitely make matters easier, which you're going to need by then." Due date of December 27th, Shae was going to have her hands full with a newborn and a body recovering by the time the spring semester arrived. But she wasn't dropping out from graduate school completely as she had first decided. Not with Marshall's moral support and brainstorming that a single online course would keep her going and be considerably more accommodating.

"Oh, don't I know it. Speaking of which, since I'll be dropping to less than half-time, I ventured over to Financial Aid today to worry that bone with a counselor, and guess who I ran into, awaiting his turn in fiscal hell?"

Marshall didn't need to hear her continuance to know, and something stuck in his craw at the reminder of circumstances, at whom he was and whom he… wasn't.

"Eddie." Flat. Knowing. Her nod could be heard over pan scrubbing.

"In all his artistic and immature, irresponsible glory, all right." Confirmation only dug the splinter in deeper. "Actually asked me how I was feeling, if there was anything I needed. Huh. I wanted to tell him that yeah, I needed a father for this baby, one responsible and caring and interested in its life. One who acknowledged he had a child arriving, even if it wasn't in the original plan. But I didn't. Kept my mouth shut. Nana always said if you couldn't be civil, choose an exceptional place to hide the body."

The laughter couldn't be withheld; she'd said it so matter-of-course, and even over four months along, was a slight thing at about 5'4" and fine boned, with high cheekbones and pointed jaw. The image of her stealthily snuffing out her ex-boyfriend – or anyone for that matter – and creeping around in the Everglades with shovel in hand and makeshift body bag Mafioso style – tickled him. No woman he knew was lesser suited either by body or mind for such vendetta. Oh, these southern women could be vengeful.

"Before you put the leftovers away, be sure to cut out a heaping for Mary." Abrupt turn from the sink with high brows in shock and bemusement.

"_Whyyy?_" he asked warily, drawing the word out.

"I think she could use a bit of home cookin' from what you tell me. Besides, I want to make a good impression on her for when I finally get to meet the woman who rattles your brain every day. I'm hoping she'll like me."

"Mary doesn't _like_ people," Marshall pointed out slowly, drying his hands on a dish towel and turning to follow her request. "She tolerates them at best. She likes me, but only because I rein her in from crossing that fine line and keep her out of serious trouble. Shooting me would be indirectly detrimental to her cause, so she gives me more leeway. And I have more patience with her than most. Generally. She might like our boss, on occasion, but…"

Shae snorted in a most unladylike manner. "Marshall… I daresay you're a little bit in love with her," she quipped, and Marshall knew his face had drained of all color. But working at a bothersome nail, his young girlfriend missed the telling reaction. _How could she know?_

"Which definitely would put you in her better graces," she added, finally ripping the offending flesh from her finger. By the moment her gaze returned to him, his features had schooled into casual interest once more, laced in skepticism from Shae's earlier comments.

"And adoration is the second best way to gain the approval of a woman's affections."

"What's the first?" he asked in honest bafflement.

Full laugh this time. "Through her stomach, silly." She gave wink.

"Maybe you _have_ met Mary…"

**-o-**

Cool, damp breeze of an unseasonable cold front drifted across the rooftop garden. Fine chest hairs fluttered, gooseflesh rose across his bare torso. Tendrils of tawny, ruffled locks flicked about in seeming randomness. Bare feet caught at the edge of the wrought iron dinette, curling over the edge reflexively. Worn jeans comfortable in the compacted, slouched position.

Marshall gazed out over the side of his building. His choice tonight was the privatized courtyard adjoining the master bedroom, secluded from the rest of the rooftop by way of strategically placed foliage, stonework. The dose of sangria held loosely between fingers, palm balancing the bowl of the leaded glass. Swirled lightly in the reflected amber snippets of light, casting a rose hue in divots and streaks on his fair flesh.

Eyes sought but saw nothing. Astringent scent bit its clarity of memory. Wine glass absentmindedly met the side-tilted forehead steadily, cool alcohol seeping its chill to a brow heated with a deluge of images. Hums and rattles of activity distant drifted in the air current. He sat quietly, body contorted, breath steady and light. The dance of life ongoing about him, somewhere, some fashion.

He was contemplative.

**-o-0-o-**

"What's this?" She held the offending Tupperware item at a slight distance as though the radioactive yellow and black symbols were plastered upon it. Mary cut a look to Marshall.

"They're leftovers," he explained, slight annoyance tingeing the words. Oh, like she would have known what the hell it was based on the snap-lid, violet-tinted plastic bowl. He'd just handed it to her with a 'here,' then carried on to his desk, disrobing his jacket and logging on to his pc before he'd even seated himself. Marshall should know better than that, really.

"Of…?" she prompted.

"_Food_." Drawn out with microscopic sarcasm. This time she shot him a pointed look when he failed to elaborate. Different approach, she considered.

"So what gives? You _buy_ me dinner, but you've never brought me leftovers." Suspicion lay second nature to Marshal Mary Shannon, and did not grant much allowance even to her partner. Not when the act was rather out of the ordinary.

"Nothing." Shrug, finally turning to meet her gaze, though continually looking back as though something of great interest held his attention on the LCD. Mary knew better. "We had homemade tuna casserole and from-scratch biscuits last night for dinner. We had leftovers. Shae just thought you might like some."

Mary couldn't help the skepticism in her expression this time, and when Marshall caught it in his fly-by glance, he sighed heavily and held her focus.

"I _might _have mentioned at some point your appreciation for fine cuisine. And this does fall under the heading of proper southern cooking. And if I recall correctly, you _do_ possess a penchant for the heartier of concoctions, do you not?"

Silence, consideration of the item in her hand, and all Mary could utter was an unimaginative, "_Huh…_" She turned and made her way without another word to the kitchenette, storing the dish in the refrigerator for dinner that night.

For reasons questionable and certainly not desirable, Mary wanted to hate Shae. The girl was making it difficult, though. At the very least, she wanted to find her with faults overwhelming. Overly perky or too studious would not balance Marshall; vicious and greedy would hurt him. Needy and weak would not challenge him. Self-centered and ignoring his needs and wants would take advantage of him and not be fair to –

Oh, wait.

The flush was hot and lightening fast. That was _her_.

_"There's much you don't know about my life, Mary. You never bother to ask."_

Recollection painful and burning seared its mark into her gut. Maybe she _had_ taken advantage of him all these years, not been fair to him in their association. Yes, she did her share of the workload, but had she done her share of supporting the friendship?

She took a moment, pondering. Maybe that's what all her dreams were about lately – really about. Taking their combined efforts, their friendship, and creating something with it. A partnership between friends equal in effort. Maybe the whole pregnant thing was some psychocrapola way of telling her she'd not been carrying her part of their relationship. That Marshall had done his part, had given her the seeds with which to grow their friendship if she would be do her job and nurture it, just like a mother.

God, what a time for it to be _about_ Marshall, thus disenabling her to ask him what the hell it all meant.

She made her way back to her desk, ignoring the watchful attention Marshall gave as she did so. Mind thoroughly entrenched elsewhere, Mary picked apart the representations in her night- and daytime dramas, the slip of the tongue and subconscious actions that were going to get her into trouble. That's what Marshall would do – pick them apart. She could do that. For herself. She was a smart girl; she could find metaphoric (_take that, Marshall! Betcha didn't think I knew __**that **__word_) meanings from her wandering thoughts. And she was already seeing the answers lining up before her, pointing out with the sharp rap of a nun's ruler how she had left their emotional support solely in Marshall's hands all these years.

_Or maybe you just want to share that next level of intimacy with your best friend, __**show**__ him the feelings you can't even admit to in your head. Oh, and have his baby._

_Shut up! _she screamed to herself in a panic, tossing her head in abrupt shakes. _No_, she reprimanded that little voice that sounded remarkably like Eleanor Prince. _I do not want to have his baby_; _it's all about me not knowing the layout of his home, what his brothers look like, where he learned so many languages and why. If he really does want children…_

**-o-**

Marshall watched the play of emotions run rampant across her face. He was getting concerned; much more worrying on that lower lip of hers and she'd need reconstructive surgery. He didn't know what was bothering her, only that it had immediately followed his proffered gift of food from Shae. He'd been surprised at her curious 'huh' without further remark, but when she'd returned from stowing it, the unseeing eyes were deep in speculation, a trace of sadness and fear in them, and studiously avoiding him.

Now she sat her desk, fingers tapping about upon the keyboard, but failing to depress actual keys. He tried to read each emotion as it passed, catching only that there was fear, pain, confusion, distaste and worry mixed in. It was the abrupt shake of her head and accompanying scowl that had gotten his full attention in a very distressed way. He was about to say something when sensitive ears caught murmured words from her own lips. _…don't care… not have his baby…_

Marshall mentally pulled up short. What _was it_ with Mary lately? Her and… babies? Recalling their day before, that nagging moment returned in full force. Our daughter. Yep; she'd said it without realizing, and had done so in all seriousness. Though being snippy, she wasn't being sarcastic at that moment. And it was a thought never far from his perusal.

He was certain they had not slept together. By all that was holy, he would have recalled that, even in his most drunken state. But Mary had meant him – their daughter – _**his **_daughter. His with her.

Marshall was forced to close his eyes against the image immediate to mind. A little girl, long blonde tresses and… blue, yes, blue eyes… Mary's precocious ways and his intellectual curiosity, running about in giggles and laughter inherited from her mother, the gales of joy and uninhibited affections Mary kept hidden so far deep in her heart. He saw the girl as a baby, wrapped tightly in her mother's arms just hours after birth, a fatigued and yet wonderfully happy Mary staring entranced. He saw Mary… weeks before delivering, a content and weary stature to her, his arms affectionately encompassing her and their babe from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder. He saw the beginning of this envisioned life, the conception, the tousled sheets and arching backs and her toned limbs, sheen of sweat and softness and lips and –

Marshall practically jumped from his chair, startling his partner. But he had no presence of mind nor care to explain, to grant her a word of apology; he had to get some air.

**-o-**

She found him out on the balcony nine and a half minutes later. Back to her, he seemed in a trance, taking in the view of the Albuquerque skyline.

"You ready to go?" Mary cringed at her own voice, somehow feeling it an intrusion to the muted sounds of mid-morning peace.

"Yeah." He turned, features passive, normal almost. She didn't ask, preferring to keep her own counsel until she had something better to say than the knee-jerk reaction she normally would spout to keep emotions at bay. She always did that: found defense as the best offense to keep pain of personal downfalls at a distance.

Allowing him to lead, Mary followed in behind, slipping on her jacket as he gathered his own items and locked his computer.

"Oh, by the way," she began, nervous but determined. She would rise to the level she should have been all along, make him realize she was – she could be – the woman and friend he'd entrusted her to be. "Please thank Shae for me, okay? For the dinner; for her thoughtfulness." He looked up suddenly, surprise evident on his face.

"It was very… nice," she added. Flushing, she remarked on their time and the witnesses waiting as she fled toward the door. _See?_ that familiar motherly voice inside claimed. _That didn't kill you, now did it?_

She was beginning to hate that voice.

**-o-**

"Have you seen my CD? The mix with Beethoven?" Marshall flicked attention between the small gathering of plastic cases and weekday traffic, brows knitting in confusion and remembrance. "I was sure I'd left it here."

"How the hell do _I_ know where you put it?" Mary snapped back, annoyed, not bothering to aid in his search. "I'm not your goddamned keeper, you know. Maybe you lost it. Or took it home. Or gave it to your girlfriend." Face turned away, she went back to staring out the passenger window.

Marshall threw a cutting glance at her, agitation at her unnecessary curtness rubbing wrong, then dismissed it. She was moody today. Not her usual glower ambience, but one of most likely preoccupation. He shrugged and let it go, resuming the hunt.

"Del Floreo's having a hard time transitioning," he opened with, trying for a change of subject. Mary's new witness was struggling with the sudden loss of a promising future in politics. "Got to be heart-wrenching for him, leaving a passion that strong because he did the right thing." Recheck of the discs… Nope. Nope. Uh-uh.

"He just needs to suck it up and change his direction. Get interested in something else, do something else." She didn't turn to face him, just spoke to the environment outside the GMC with a flatness and coldness that bothered him on multiple levels.

"It's just not that easy, Mary. You know that," he countered softly, subtly reminding her these were people with plans and hopes and entire futures they were sacrificing, not a disappointing meal choice. Quieter, lower. "Some dreams simply refuse to die. No matter how much we try to suffocate them."

The rest of the way was driven in silence, the dull hum of the engine the only companion to thoughts awry.

**-o-0-o-**

"Corrine, honey… please calm down." Jackie's attempt at reassurance had thus far gone ignored, the young woman beside him on the hay bale continued to rock slightly back and forth, arms wrapped about her chest and shoulders, tears falling. "I told you; they were just friends checking up on me. Met 'em when I first moved to Albuquerque. They helped me get settled. They weren't sent here by your ex, sweetheart."

Comforting hand awkwardly volleyed between pats and rubs to her back. He was unsure how to relieve her stress and still keep to the code of Witness Protection. He was trying to protect her, and it seemed if it wasn't a danger coming from crooked horsemen and their race-fixing ways, it was coming in the form of a deadbeat thug of an ex-husband. But he was going to take care of her, keep her safe. Had already told her as much. Now he needed to get her mind off everything.

"Hey… you know I saw you this morning on that bitchy filly Kraeger. What a wicked handful _she_ is! Where'd you learn to ride so good?" He infused light-hearted enthusiasm into his words, drawing her from ill-fated reveries.

Silence. Then sniffles. Mumbling.

"What was that?" he questioned in playful tones. "Old man here don't hear worth a damn anymore. And the barn cat don't take notes." He chuckled, and she followed suit. Voice stronger now.

"Playing on the polo ponies when I was a little girl in Argentina," she said, a smile poking out from the tear streaked lips. "Mama an' Daddy were missionaries, and I'd get bored while they were preaching to the people, building homes and things, so I'd hop bareback on one of the ponies in the adjoining pasture by the church. They didn't appreciate my initiative, but figured it would keep me out of trouble."

"Oh, really?" he asked, holding back the laugh that threatened at her suggested impudence. "Sounds like you were blowing that theory all to hell."

"Yeah. I remember this one time, there was this big sleepover at the church, and this boy down the road had this crazy toucan, and once everyone was asleep on the floor, he and I got that bird and…"


	10. Ch 10: Bread Crumbs & Coffee Beans

**Disclaimer****: **Just _**let**_ me take control… David Maples would be back writing and wife Holly would be acting. At this stage, however… not mine.

**Author's Note:** By request, a floor plan of Marshall's loft has been created and is available for viewing (if you're interested) on the Mary_Marshall Live Journal Community: ht tp: /community .livejournal. com/mary_marshall/472492. html

Hope this finds everyone excited for a new, safe, and promising 2011. _Sláinte!_

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts!

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 10: Bread Crumbs & Coffee Beans**

_"Try not to induce any suicidal tendencies in any of our witnesses while I'm gone, please?"_

_ Mary cast him a sidelong glare that left him chuckling as he walked through the security checkpoint, badge and credentials easing passage, and disappeared into the throngs headed for hold rooms. She watched for faint glimpses until TSA reps at scanner posts gave her the Evil Eye. Didn't matter; by now Marshall was no doubt boring a ticket agent with fun factoids from flight physics phenomenon. Mary felt sorry for the unknown victim._

_ And more so for herself. She'd miss him. Terribly._

It had rained since Wednesday – (two hours on Friday afternoon) – and Mary took note to pencil in a wash for the GMC. She'd been percolating about town in it in Marshall's absence, and intended to make up for its use with a quick bathe and shine before he arrived home tomorrow. All part of the Mary-Pulls-Her-Head-Out-Of-Her-Ass [and becomes a reciprocal friend again] Plan. She was on a mission: to show Marshall she really did care about their friendship, and she could be worthy of it. By the time he got back, a revitalized Mary Shannon would be waiting for him. Maybe he'd not be so ready to trade her in for another best friend.

That wasn't quite a fair assessment, she admitted to herself. He'd never even implied she wasn't good enough, that he felt neglected, that he was… leaving her. Then again, that last… Yeah, he sort of was, but not quite how she'd envisioned it. Nor, honesty be told, how she'd ever have considered it. He had a girlfriend now, one she'd not even met, and Mary could feel the withdraw of… something. Was this how Marshall had felt when she'd gotten engaged?

Strike that. Marshall was _not_ engaged. Mary shuddered involuntarily. If a secret girlfriend had distracted him so much from her – from their friendship – then what would a wife do to it?

Annoying chimes of familiarity saved further contemplations unnerving. Single-handed steering, Mary grabbed her phone with undue exuberance.

"_Mary_." She'd foregone checking the I.D. in her rush for distraction, voice breathless, high pitched, feverish.

"Oh, _tell_ me I make you answer the phone like that." A voice too long withheld, the SUV swerved ditch-side as Mary knee-jerked in reaction. But a pleasant one was this surprise, and when once more the SUV was lane-confined, she lit up with more cheer than she had had in weeks.

"Bobby!" The excitement in her greeting came out almost squeakish, and Mary blushed in her attempts to tone down. Sometimes, though, you just needed that friendly connection.

"Hey, girl. How's my favorite U.S. Marshal?" He sounded so relaxed, so easy. She'd forgotten what that could be like: witty conversation without the electrical undertones of personal crises. "Haven't seen your name on the types, so I guess you haven't shot anyone lately, eh?"

She noticed how he hadn't said, '_had_ to shoot anyone,' and an old smirk danced across her lips in the play of game. "Are you volunteering, Dershowitz? 'Cause the range is free and I'm willing to fork over flyer miles for some moving target practice."

"You'd spend your hard-banked miles just to come see me?" he quipped, and Mary could hear the cheesy grin on his face. "I'm flattered."

"They're Marshall's, but I'd be willing to hold off on my confiscated trip to Mooresville for a point 'n shoot session."

"Well, as entertaining as that could be, I'll have to take a rain check; got a case of inquiry that demands a little 'professional courtesy' visit with you, first."

"Bobby, I'm not burning my Creole plans just to do work," she answered, taking the next right. "You want Professional Mary, you hit up the government to pay airfare. Means: call Stan."

Muffled chuckling bled through the connection. "How about you drive your sweet armed ass out here, and I'll go in for lunch? Best offer I've got right now."

"Out here? Where the hell are you?" she asked bemusedly. His suggestion of lunch adjusted the wheel to by-pass the drive-thru lane she'd just pulled into, Big Boy now shrinking in the rearview.

"Bolero Downs Race Track. I'll meet you in twenty. Stable Gate."

_Click_, and he was gone.

_Well, shit_. Coincidences, she'd learned long ago, rarely were. Why the hell was she always left to tend Marshall's witness?

With a heavy sigh of irritation, her course altered and for the third time in as many weeks, the Call to Post beckoned her arrival.

**-o-**

The impulse to hug him was tamped down quickly with mental reminders of her own sense of image. Wouldn't do to have Detective Bobby Dershowitz think she had missed him or anything. Or that she was suddenly feeling very lonely and in desperate need of a friend these past few days. So instead, Mary made do with a palm smack to his shoulder and casual greeting.

"I don't care _what_ Jenny Craig promised you, you ain't ridin' into that Winner's Circle, Bobby," she quipped, seeking neutral, natural ground. She popped him in the abs with the back of her hand, distractedly noting their firmness. "Filipe Santos, you ain't."

"And wonderful to _be_ back, Shannon, thanks for asking," Bobby responded dryly.

"Oh, yeah, I did notice that anomaly." She cocked her head inquiringly, arms akimbo, waiting for both answer and their deliverance from just off the drive beside the Stable Gate. She was ready to get on with this dog and pony show, had things to do. "So what gives? Thought you were JTTF'n it up in the Big Windy. What, Leroy Brown teach you a little lesson about messin'…?"

Bobby snorted a laugh, paused, studied her. Mary felt the careful inspection, the flush starting in her cheeks, and took the offensive before he could gauge her too closely. She took off on a beeline toward his car, hands gesturing in annoyance. "Let's do this Show 'n Tell before I lose patience, flip off the teacher and collect my toys and go home." She climbed into his car and waited, Bobby sliding into the stuffy Crown Vic and starting it without comment.

Badge flashed, he rolled through the gate and began the slow, winding trek between barns and track. Late morning, and horses roamed the backside, some on leashes, some tethered to other, heavier horses, some running on the dirt oval. Mary rolled her eyes as she heard Marshall's corrective instruction in her head from their last outing: _Those are leads, Mare, not leashes. And the other horse is ponying that colt… _She'd shut him out after that, her mind a million ways otherwise occupied that morning. Not unlike today.

"So why am I here, oh ye of the great Southside?" Getting to the point helped Mary pull her game back together.

"Detective Milton got a tip from a CI that there was some hinky activity on the backside here. Possible race fixing."

She raised a brow and turned, copping a look. "_Hinky?_" God, he was sounding like Marshall.

Bobby looked abashed for a moment, then straightened himself as he slowed to a virtual crawl as horse traffic quadestrianed past in both directions. "Yes, well, there are some questionable oddities with concern to –"

She cut him off. "And this has to do with me just _how_? Sic your UCs on 'em or something; I don't have time to play My Little Pony, here."

"Even if it's one of your stable in the barn fire?" That caught Mary's attention, a grimace leading the way in cover.

"Now that's just sick, Bobby." Two breaths, composure… "What makes you think I've got an entry in this race?" Looking ahead, to the sides… avoid eye contact. She didn't need this today.

"Milton was checking some leads discreetly, and one took the form of a kitchen worker, describing an associate of a subject of interest. Said associate was seen last week working in the kitchen. While there, he was visited by a couple of unfamiliar faces who seemed to have a particular interest in speaking with this individual. Funny enough…" – and his tone said there was nothing humorous about it – "these visitors' descriptions painted a pretty portrait of a couple of U.S. Marshals I happen to know."

The irritated toss of her head spoke volumes much louder than the disgusted murmur from her lips. "Ah, _shit_…"

**-o-**

Jackie wasn't on the grounds, and Mary found her promised meal to be paid via the track kitchen, Bobby hopeful to stay long enough for Mason to show. She felt cheated on the lunch, bamboozled by Dershowitz, and vaguely annoyed with Marshall. His absence was keenly felt. And damn it, it was _still his witness!_

"So what's the story on Mooresville? You suddenly get a hankerin' for Midwest living?" Bobby was asking around a southwestern homemade burger that Mary had to admit – reluctantly – was amazing. She cut him a look.

"Zydeco's Cajun and Creole," she answered shortly, as though that said everything. Bobby appeared both amused and quizzical.

"Aaannnd…?" Pause. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

Mary snorted impatiently. "Well I'm certainly not going up there for the stimulating corn festival and basket weaving convention. _Food,_ Dershowitz! Food. Supposed to be authentic and some of the best Creole and Cajun dishes in the country. And I intend to judge for myself."

His bland stare had her eyes narrowed and back on her fries, dragging their shoestrings through ketchup while mumbling clearly enough to be heard, "Hell; wouldn't have had to explain that to Marshall."

"Speaking of, just where is Marshall? I'd called him first – hey," he interrupted her interruption, "I know how just how cooperative you are, and Marshall's easier to work with." At her murderous glare, he tacked on, "Though not nearly as hot to stare at."

Slightly mollified, Mary conceded the last to be true. With effort she brushed away images dancing across her mind of her partner and Shae, pinned against a brick wall, reenacting _9 and 1/2 Weeks_. Okay, so he knew how to kiss. He still wasn't _hot_. Wasn't quintessentially _male_. That required much more alpha in his make-up, and Marshall just wasn't that testosterone driven. But he was still Marshall, and he had his own appeal.

"So yeah, I tried Marshall first." Bobby was speaking again. Vague emotions in her fled in light of his voice. "But the calls went to voicemail immediately, which says his phone is off or…" The last was drawn up in pitch in question. Mary spared him.

"He's out of town on business." Silence. Arms crossed. Stare.

Seeing he'd not get another word, the detective moved on to his point. "Jack Mason. He one of yours?"

"Thanks for lunch, D," Mary hastened, rising and shoving her chair back in. Only a handful of customers were left, and she drew several pairs of eyes. "Drop me another postcard when you get back to Chicago."

Bobby grabbed her wrist as she tried to waltz by, and she turned, expression dark.

"All right, all right," he sighed balefully. "I can see nothing's changed. Fine, then; we'll play it your way." He made sure she was listening, and at her impatient facial gesture, he continued. "If your… _friend_… Mason is involved with all this, you might want to give him a little advice to come clean with you now. This is some serious shit. The Racing Commission is about to get wind of this, and they don't take too kindly to race fixing or animal abuse. And there will be a _thorough_ investigation… backgrounds and all." His pause heavy with meaning.

"Duly noted." Subdued tone, slight nod of thanks, then she pulled free and went out the door.

**-o-**

It was a play of Catch-Up the rest of the afternoon. Witness visits of hers and Marshall's, a long-requested meeting with the state's attorney over an _incident_ brushed over two months ago… And a forty-three minute mandatory stop at Lonnie's Boot Mart to replace her favorite pair, damaged beyond repair when Michael Tillis had cascaded down a loose-shale embankment in his attempt to discover new paths to freedom.

She was still pissed about that.

But all the running hadn't alleviated her irritation at that fast one Dershowitz had pulled on her that morning. Waiting until she was in his car, in the track kitchen, failing to fully explain his entire motive for calling her in… not until he directly threw the question, 'This her?' at the grizzled old man switching out warming trays from the serving line. Bobby had lured her in for an identification from the cook, damn it, and Mary fumed outside to him, inside to her own failure to smell a rat in the grain bin. She was off her game, and it chafed in unsavory ways.

"Maybe I should go ahead and wash the truck," she murmured to herself. "Something I can shoot, even if it's just water… _highly pressurized_ water." The last cheered her a mite, and Mary headed toward a self-wash option, mentally tabulating her hearty efforts toward the 'be a better friend' deal. Two birds, one stone… she was a hell of a multi-tasker.

Five-fifty and a no-spot rinse later, marginally improved were mood and mind. Pulling out from the lot still dripping (because, like tipping, Mary didn't believe in hand drying a vehicle – that's what the sun and wind were for), that familiar notification alerted her the probability someone would get punched today. Or shot.

Smart move this time, and with a check to Caller ID, Mary was semi-relieved.

"Yes, Master of All Things Involving Money?"

"And a good afternoon to you, Mary," Stan replied, nonplussed. "As I know you've completed visits by now and no telling what personal errands you've been out doing, I'd assume you're on your way back to the office."

"Ummmm…"

"I will take that as a 'yes.'" Pause. "Good, then. Stop by and, if you would not _mind_, pick me up a large caramel macchiato with double whipped cream and low-fat milk. _I'll pay_," he added heavily, knowing his inspector. She perked up.

"Sure thing, Chief."

Deciding it would be an opportunity to double duty the aviary once more, Mary realized she needed to check out Marshall's current favorite cup o' joe shoppe. She needed to figure out which of their combinations what his flavor of the day so she could present him with a homecoming gift on Tuesday - tomorrow. In fact, if she played her cards right, they might even remember him and his choice. An easy 'A' for the girl who forgot her notebook.

Aromas deep and rich assaulted her as she entered the frantic clutches of _Coffea Kiva_, hot pastries enhancing the scents to mouth watering. The lines were long and activity rampant, giving Mary time to scope out the menu and weigh her partner's general preferences with his penchant for trying exotic mixes or odd pairings. After several minutes of twisted Italian and colorful accoutrements, she cast her gaze upon the servers, recounting her previous plan of cheating with an insider's help.

Eyes searching the frantic few who were taking orders and foaming heavy paper cups, Mary started with a mutter oath. Was that one of her witnesses? The girl with long curls pulled back in a loose, low ponytail, visor low on her innocent face of round, rosy cheeks. _Oh, God, what __**now**__…_

Actually, it looked more to be Winston and Margaret Lenton's daughter, relocated three years ago, but she was only fifteen. Um… five years ago, Mary reminded herself. Her hair draped over a shoulder, shielding nametag, making that recognition moot. Damn. She didn't need for her witness to recognize her, call her out in public. A low profile was much preferred where protected clients and herself were involved.

Keeping her head averted, Mary weighed options and decided she'd try for one of the other employees' line, determined to get the right order for Marshall's arrival in the morning. Managing to make the counter without Familiar Face spotting her, Mary hastily gave Stan's order, fell back on her staple, and covertly studied the baristas. The girl was out of the question, but she noted her own server appeared bone-tired with dark circles, which suggested perhaps he was traditionally a morning shift sort of guy; he would be here when Marshall typically visited.

Working a plan on the fly, Mary waited until he returned with her drink, and snagged his sleeve before he turned to make Stan's.

"Hey," she began in a rushed whisper. He looked startled, but compliant. "Listen, I want to surprise a friend with his favorite coffee, and I know he gets it from here, but I don't know what he usually gets. Think you might remember him?" At his prompt, she went on to describe Marshall and his usual timing.

"Don't recall him; but I usually work nights." He glanced around. "I'll ask one of the morning crew. Several worked over today." With that, he went to mix Stan's order, only to come back in half a minute, claiming they had to open a new container of caramel, and would she mind waiting over at one of the booths and he'd send it out as soon as it was ready.

Relocating to a solitary booth, Mary surreptitiously took in the clientele as it thinned from the afternoon rush. For that, it had best be some seriously kick-ass coffee. Taking a sip of her own… Okay, she could see why Marshall liked it. It was good. Not the best she'd ever had (what compares to the authenticity of fresh brew in Columbia?), but worth stopping to retrieve.

It was several minutes before movement caught her eye, and Mary watched as her personal java barkeep handed a grande to a short brunette and gestured toward Mary. The girl turned and – no. _Damn it_. Couldn't anything go right today?

Fumbling for her phone, Mary turned to face the table, head down and blonde locks draping to curtain her face as she pretended to text. Peripherally checking progress, she realized a split second before the cup was placed in front of her that her courier had arrived. Appearing engrossed in her message, Mary was somewhat annoyed that the girl was still standing there, as she could make out the dark form through a break in her hair. Was she waiting for a tip? Well, a 'thank you' wouldn't be out of order, she realized with chagrin.

"Thanks," Mary murmured, hoping that to be the last. What she received wasn't the half-expected 'you're welcome.'

"You must be Mary," a soft, flowing voice posed. Caught off guard, Mary abruptly sat straight and turned face.

And then it all whipped over her in a frightening rush. The pretty face framed in long chestnut hair was one she'd seen only once before, in the hazy halo of dim streetlights, shadowed by her lover's earnest attentions. Mary blushed.

"And you must be Shae…"

"Yes, ma'am," she replied, a soft drawl falling from a genuine smile, weariness marring the effect minimally.

Remembering herself, Mary started and gestured, suggesting the young woman sit for a moment. Surprisingly, it was Mary's concern for Shae's obviously worn body and pregnancy which initially drew the offer from her lips. Finally meeting and interrogating Marshall's new girlfriend was a secondary remembrance.

"Cinnamon and mocha latte with a splash of maraschino syrup and extra whipped cream – Marshall's current favorite," she added at Mary's blank stare.

"Oh, yeah. Right. Thanks." Waiting for this moment, Mary found it odd to find herself void of conversation. For a brief silence, she took in the visual cues of the girl across from her. Attractive in an innocent sort of way. Pretty. Like a girl straight off a Nebraska farm. But her voice was just as Marshall had said: Georgian drawl. Mary half expected a parasol and hooped skirts, but dismissed the image before snickering started.

"Marshall promised me we'd be introduced sometime; I told him I wanted a lunch with you, to meet the infamous 'Mary.'" Her grin grew, a sparkle lighting in her darkly circled brown eyes. "I'm afraid he was perplexed at my insistence, and very nervous about us meeting. Though I don't know why." Head cocked to one side, studying Mary. "You're quite as he described – an intense beauty, with hellfire in your eyes and protective as a mama bear."

Mary's brows rose. "Marshall said _that_?" Skeptical. Loss for words.

Shae grinned. "Well, close enough. He thinks mighty highly of you, anyway."

"How'd you two meet?" The question was a reroute from herself as subject; Mary's discomfort abated with Shae's acceptance of change.

"I'm a grad student at UNM, and started working here five months ago. Marshall came in one day when I was all upset with my boyfriend – we'd had a fight – and he was just so sweet. Acted like he really cared." Mary mumbled affirmative with a long look at the table. He _would have_ cared. Genuinely.

"He told me some silly facts about crying and tears and coffee beans…" She shrugged. "Made me laugh. Then whenever he'd come in, he'd ask me about school or Eddie or how I was doing living in Albuquerque. Then when I found out about this new development –" obvious rubs to her growing belly "– Eddie didn't want to grow up and I dropped the cappuccino I was making and just broke down bawling like baby. Marshall talked to me. Calmed me down. Came in often and cheered me up. Finally he asked me out to a zoo exhibit. I thought he was sweet – and super hot – so I went."

Silence for several long moments, Mary trying to take it all in, the innocence of their meeting, the vibrant, feisty character she could see in this young woman before her. Shae wasn't quite what she had been expecting, but if she had thought about it, the truth made much more sense. Marshall wouldn't be interested in a wallflower nor a weak, idiot (or even bright) girl with no personality.

"He sleeps in wacky kids' pajamas," Mary said out of the blue. Was she trying to dissuade Shae? Or just step away from the subject of how wonderful Marshall was?

The laugh was low and throaty, amused. "Oh, yeah, I know about those." Something in Mary's stomach dropped. "Was looking through his overnight bag for something and he set'em out. Then he told me why he has them. I think it's precious."

"The reason he has them?" Perplexed. Shae looked taken aback for a moment.

"Oh, you don't know their history? His niece started giving them to him for Christmas when she was six. It became a tradition for them, and he looks forward to each year's eclectic look. He takes them with him when he travels, he says, to remind him of the good still left in the world. Helps him keep his humor, being a marshal and all."

Mary never knew that, and her expression must have relayed that fact. Shae tried to give her a moment, glancing back toward the counter then turning back and sighing exaggeratedly. "Guess I'd best get back to the grind; Melvin's giving me _the Look_." Comically twisted expression. She rose with some issue, then turned back and held out her hand.

"It was a pleasure to finally meet you, Mary. We'll have to do lunch soon. Oh, and remind Marshall he owes you a foot rub. I made him promise. Told him every woman needed one at least every blue moon." She winked at Mary, and when the marshal clasped her hand, the grip was strong, confident.

Just Marshall's style.

"Yeah… a pleasure," Mary managed, still flummoxed. She felt like Alice's Evil Twin in the Looking Glass. Nothing was as it appeared.

"See ya 'round, Miss Mary. We need to make a date for real barbeque and Georgia Pecan Pie. With ice cream. We'll even make Marshall chauffeur us." With a laugh, she made her way back to work, leaving Mary new concerns plaguing her mind.

She thought she _liked_ Shae.

**-o-**

_Had to catch ride w/ Security. Pretended to be exercise rider w/ injury. Don't think he believed me._

She took a swig from her beer, bouncing her leg in the air as it draped over the couch arm, and waited for the text to complete its send. She'd made it home after a mandatory stop at the office, then pleaded headache to escape. Her mind had been swimming. First dreams of having Marshall's baby (well, really, that other dream had been first: her in an Acapulco beachfront hotel room with Mike Faber in a towel; she made out with him only to pull back and it had changed to Marshall in a towel. It'd been enough to jar her awake, the box of travel brochures her pillow with her mom's semi-glossy on Alaskan cruises stuck to her cheek. Definitely one she'd like to forget.).

So, okay; her hormones have been raging at the lack of satiation (and just whose fault is that, missy?), and an odd strain has been tugging at her partnership – friendship – with Marshall. She wasn't quite sure when it had begun, or even why outside of her –

And there was her answer. She wasn't sure, because she hadn't been paying attention. Isn't that what Marshall had basically told her in Santa Fe? She was so busy with her own life, her family's insanity, that she'd neglected to ask him about his, to have an interest in his, or to even notice when his had significantly changed.

She missed him.

Timing impeccable, Mary answered on the first ring.

"Maria's Pleasure Palace, what's your pleasure?" Why was she so suddenly giddy?

"Yeah, I'll have the Meat Lover's with a side of finger-lickin' hot'n spicy, hold the 'sticks."

She snorted. "As a Meat Lover myself, I don't know if you've got the meat to be loved or not. Figured you're more of a soft cinnamon twist – all wrapped up and full of hot air."

"Ah, you wound me. Does this mean I get no hot 'penos all over my sausage?"

"Oh, you are so warped, Marshall."

"Yeah, I know." She could see his crooked smirk in her head. "That's why you love me."

A flush washed down her body, and her voice held a soft reserve when the intended snark was abruptly, unintentionally changed as she spoke. "Yeah; it is."

Marshall must have heard the change of demeanor. Humor faded to concern evident. Pause…silence. Hesitation. "What's wrong, Mary?"

"Nothing's wrong." Stronger voice this time, but nothing of her usual drive.

"Hey, I know you. I can hear it in your voice. Talk to me, Mary."

His request was sincere, and a sliver of that painfully protected part of her heart ached at the genuine concern. This was Marshall – her Keeper. How could she have ever doubted his loyalty or his faith in their friendship? And yet… There was something that just wasn't adding up, and Mary couldn't help but feel it was something she was failing to bring to the table. And all Marshall could do was be even more himself, even more protective and worrying and somewhere in there, fearful he had done something in err. Yeah, she knew him, too.

"It's nothing, Marshall," she finally replied, soft and a bit empty. "Really," she cut him off, "just got a lot on my mind."

"Anything you care to evenly distribute onto a second one? It's half the weight and density."

She laughed, half chuckle, half forced, but true. "Nah; that head of yours needs no further filling."

And they talked into the night, and Mary felt at ease for the first time in a very, very long while.


	11. Ch 11: That Which Time Cannot Erase

**Disclaimer****: **Yeah, yeah, yeah… yada, yada, yada. If I had taken possession of IPS by now, wouldn't you think I'd have already taken Marshall and… well, taken Marshall? Hmm? So, in logical retrospect: still ain't mine.

**Author's Note:** An insanely long chapter, but it's a combination of two. Sort of an apology for the long wait.

A special 'thank you' to Bujyo for continued support and feedback – We'll rule the world one day, Brain. Pinky. Wondertwin. Whatever. :~)

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts!

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 11: That Which Time Cannot Erase**

Yearning. Hope… dashed. Kicked about like a belligerent child's empty tin can on the alleyway asphalt.

Then subtle pleading. Beaten puppy's eyes; ever quickening shallow breaths, anxious. Silent waiting. Fearful. Possible resignation, then… Unsettled.

Mary shuffled agitatedly beneath the covers before tossing herself to her back, staring toward the ceiling. Seeing nothing. Seeing everything. Searching for… something. Beethoven's strains echoed softly throughout her room, hauntingly in her head. She understood Marshall a hair's breath better, and wasn't sure she wanted to do. It meant stopping long enough to see more complexity. Open enough to allow the lighter touches to be felt.

_"Beethoven had loved, desired a woman he could never have… 'my angel, my all, my very self.'" _Marshall had explained this piece. Allowing herself this rare vulnerability, Mary could hear his words in the strains, felt it tangibly as a tightness in her chest. Never one to believe in this sort of love, in this all-consuming passion of the soul – of the body, yes, but not the deeper emotions – it surprised her to find herself longing as well, desperately hoping for something right along with Ludwig.

Perhaps it was the very desire to have that sort of infallible faith of the innocent; childhood before reality stepped in with a steel-toed boot of her and Brandi's next 'Uncle.' After all this time, still the pain hung as a foul odor clinging to the very walls of her house of memories. Why couldn't she just let them go, let go of any desire for any of these nonsensical, impossible dreams?

_"Some dreams simply refuse to die. No matter how much we try to suffocate them."_ Mary sighed. Marshall had meant it. Spoke it from experience.

What dreams had he attempted to drown?

**-o-**

Cypress dappled the bright Florida sun, casting an eerily subdued light beneath their high limbs. Moss-sponged ground muffled the hoofbeats of three hardy trail ponies, silencing avian habitat upon approach, only for the void to be filled again in the equines' wake.

Picayune Strand National Forest greeted the early morning with an exotic spell, leaving Marshall Mann both fascinated and slightly uneasy. He would never hide a witness here in such directionless lowlands. Nor would he ever allow one to relocate _himself_ there, a cornucopia of ills meshed all around him. The fact that they three now rode through swamp-littered terrain only reinforced his opinion.

"_Crazy… I'm crazy for feelin' so lonely_…" Marshall cocked an eyebrow as his gaze flicked amusedly toward the rider ahead and to his right. Special Agent Dave Fuentes rode with an air of a man comfortable in the saddle, relaxed and easy of hand. He bore a remarkable resemblance to drummer Tico Torres, and furthered that connection with a rolling bass voice that crooned Patsy Cline in a soft rumble. The notes were true, the decibels low but carrying in the peaceful morning. With practiced ease Marshall studied the landscape, letting his mind drift with the lyrical tones.

"_Crazy… for thinkin' that my love could hold you_…" Marshall grinned in spite of himself, a rueful reflection of a wild heart dressed in blonde tresses and a smart mouth. Nothing and no one in the world could hold that whirlwind.

"…_and I'm crazy for lovin'… you_…" Slight vibrato, then the voice trailed with a sweetness that belied the pain of the phrases. Reminiscence of a time simpler and a younger man's heart full of hope and optimism.

"When's the last time you were ever 'crazy' over some woman, Dave?" Special Agent Bryce Allyson queried from Marshall's upper left. The laughter in his voice made the marshal grin further; the camaraderie between the federal agents was highly apparent. "What did you do, become highly intimate with a bottle of Jack, Kleenex and Jergens?"

Marshall snickered, then tried to cover in a cough. Bryce held no such qualms at openly harassing his fellow agent.

Faux affront was offered in a snort, then Dave's cheerful response rang clear. "Ah, my dear friend, I must admit that I was so insanely crazy over the girl, I didn't know _what_ I should do. So I married her. Thirty-two years, five children, and seven grandbabies ago. And I'm _still_ crazy about her."

Marshall's mood, while still good, faded to a sudden melancholy… his smile, sad.

**-o-**

Twenty-seven minutes later the hovel camp of Dougie Stanton was hello'd and approached. The three lawmen were met with a nervous wariness and twelve-gauge 'cross the too-slender legs of a scraggily forty-something.

"'lo, Dougie," Agent Allyson greeted before dismounting. Marshall and Agent Fuentes followed suit once their associate was a-ground. "As promised, we brought someone along to talk to you about your life after trial…"

Their discussion was abbreviated, the Cliff's Notes' version of Stanton's poor judgment working as a runner for minor leaguer Carlos Rodriguez. Doctor shopping and dime bags weren't enough to interest the feds, but when Stanton began dancing for Rodriguez's new supplier, Cuban drug lord Milo Verde, and thus witnessing three executions and four concealed drops within the Everglades… Well, suddenly Stanton's role became prized for the US Prosecution, and the molasses-witted street-kid-grown was all too ready to give up his employers. That is, when said employers appeared to be using his only friend and fellow runner Marcus Gillespie as disposable bait against a competitor.

"Dougie," Fuentes began, a deep, soft tone reminiscent of speech to a confused child. "We had you in a safe place where no one could hurt you. Not Carlos, not Milo, not Langosta Gorda with his pen knives…" Dave was squatting before Dougie, patient and calm, earnest expression furrowing the skin between his thick, black brows. At the last mention, Dougie shuddered involuntarily, flushing pale beneath the natural tan of his skin, layers of rich swamp soil and grime.

Marshall observed silently, taking in the whole picture without intervention. Apparently "Fat Lobster" had a penchant for small blades, and the marshal knew only too well the damage – both mentally and physically – that could be inflicted if wielded by the wrong hands. Pieces of suggestive detail rattled around his brain with the snippets of information. Yet Marshall remained off to the side, content to let the discussion continue unimpeded. The FBI agents would call him to the forefront when they were ready for him to offer his services to Stanton, to present the crystal ball in which everything could change in the poor man's life from here on out.

The scene unfogging before him now, however, was making little sense. He had been briefed to the fact that this witness – located only through intelligence the night before – had suddenly fled the safe house to which he had been quarantined. This disappearance had occurred midday the past Wednesday… just as Marshall had been flying into Naples. The search had been on since then. Only a tip from a skulking juvenile looking to avoid corrections had led them to this location. But fleeing? And here? Why?

"Look, Dougie…" Agent Allyson was taking up the concerned parent role now, kneeling down in his non-issued denim and work boots. "We're not mad at you," he began, and Dougie Stanton visibly relaxed. Expression still guarded, he looked like a child awaiting punishment. "We just want to know why you ran off like that. We were worried about you. You know Carlos is mad; why would you…" Marshall could see the agent was desperately seeking the right word. The easier word.

"Why would you take the chance of leaving the hidden house and getting back on the street where Carlos might catch you?" came the pick-up from Agent Fuentes. "You must have known you could have gotten into lots of trouble by doing that. He could have found you and hurt you. Or Langosta could have spotted you… and you know what he is capable of doing. That was very dangerous, Dougie. Even out here…" He gestured about with his hands, sweeping the wooded and grassy area with a quick and peering glance. "You've got more to fear than just the two-legged enemies."

"I had to tell Marcus; I had to protect him." Simple. Straightforward.

"But Dougie, you could have been killed. If Carlos' men had seen you…" Agent Fuentes' deep voice trailed. Anxiety had touched the tone, lying just beneath, and Marshall realized the FBI agent honestly cared about his charge. Respect notched a little higher.

Agent Allyson went further, trying to understand. "You know you could have told Agent Fuentes or myself; we would have checked on Marcus, would have worked something out to get him out of town for a few days. Why didn't you just come to us?"

"But _**I**_ had to tell Marcus. He trusts me. He's my friend. I had to protect him," Dougie continued, pleading for comprehension. "_**I**_ had to do it. I had to make sure he was okay. I'm his friend. You do anything to protect your friend." Pause, thoughtful expression. Tired eyes, begging.

"He trusts me," he repeated. And for Dougie, that was all that mattered.

Special Agent Dave Fuentes sighed and turned to Marshall, his words offered to their civilian.

"Dougie, I'd like you to meet United States Marshal Marshall Miller. Marshal Miller is here to talk to you about starting a new life in a new place, far away from Carlos and his ilk." Standing with a slight heave that bespoke years of joint abuse, Fuentes slowly moved away to keep point, and all attention fell to Marshall.

"Good morning, Dougie," he began, stepping up and offering his hand. "Tell me something… when you were a kid, what did you always dream of being when you grew up?"

**-o-0-o-**

_Flight delayed. Will text once set for takeoff. Just me._

Mary frowned at the words, mentally calculating when _Coffea Kiva_ closed for the day. Marshall's flight should be in early afternoon if not too off schedule. Hmm… she'd just have to get some sort of insulated warming cup to keep his surprise toasty. A good friend would do that.

"Hey, Mary?" Stan's voice broke her tabulations, and she peered up peevishly from her desk to find her chief busy with his own phone several feet away, impervious to her glare.

"_Jawohl, Herr Kommandant_?" Her tone expressed the balefulness her eyes could not deliver with his preoccupation. That brought his attention.

Sigh. Weary look. "Mary…" heavier sigh in her name. "I've got a flight out in the morning for D.C. I'll be gone until Sunday. I've got to handle a few things before the morning, so I'm headed out here in a few. I'm leaving you in charge, _only_ –" He cut off her commentary with a palm and piercing facial admonishment.

"Only until Marshall arrives back, which should be in a short enough period of time even _you_ can't piss off all of Albuquerque by then. Now, barring any meltdowns, just hold fort until I get back."

"Why's Marshall get to be in charge?" she asked petulantly, getting up to follow him about his flurry through the office, acquiring files, a go-cup of coffee.

"Because Marshall's more level-headed –"

"– could balance that coffee on his head –"

"– has a clean record –"

"– so squeaky you could eat off him –"

"– has seniority –"

"– practically one foot in the old folks' home –"

"– and has the wherewithal to evaluate the situation and consider and implement other options prior to shooting any anomalies encountered."

"The where with what – oh," she paused as he stopped, turned and faced her with expectancy laced in humor. "Okay, so you got me on that one." She waited a moment, her musings written upon features too animated for his liking. "Does that mean I have to take orders from him? 'cause if so, he can find his own damn ride home from the airport."

Stan merely smirked, snagged his jacket and swiped himself out the door with a calling, "I'll see you Monday, Mary."

"Well, hell," she muttered, watching her leader disappear into the elevator. Encompassing glance about the office reiterated her deflation. "All in charge, and no one to charge through." She wandered by Marshall's forlorn desk and thieved a paperclip, examined it, and tossed it haphazardly down. "Well that sucks monkey ass…"

**-o-**

When the call came, Mary had been hesitant. The number wasn't in her Blackberry, and though she was of the adventurous sort, she was also a U.S. Marshal, and as such rather leery of an unknown with her personal number. Identity was everything in her world.

She'd answered with a curt, "Yeah," quick and unidentifiable. The response, however, had replaced her uncertainty with professional alert and concern.

"Jaacc– Jackie," the sobbing, girlish voice managed. Quick breaths and choking, higher pitch gasping for air. "It's Corinne… Paulo's mad. He – he…" Pause, obvious breath in an attempt at control. Mary could almost see the exaggerated eye-widening and facial stretch to clear tears and restore composure. It didn't work.

"Oh, Jac-ckk-kie… he – he hit me and he, uh-hm, _he_ –" She was nearly hyperventilating in fear, and Mary was afraid to speak and scare her off. Frantically she rifled through her Roledex, searching for the number to request an emergency ping –

"Please come get me, _please_… I'm in Jamie Craddock's barn. Please –" _choke!_ – "please…" Then the line went dead.

**-o-**

Earthy and damp, slight must in the presence of dusty hay and sweet pine shavings. The breeze was frail but cool in the midday heat, a temperature drop of several degrees once she stepped under the shed row of Barn 46 – trainer Jamie Craddock's barn, she had been told. It was amazing what a badge would get you these days, and how fast it could clear out some of the help typically seen walking the backside grounds.

Mary Shannon had put two and two together and come up with six – the Fulton Six. Jackie Mason's old gang. More specifically, Jackie Mason. Again. _Marshall's _witness. Again. A barn in Jackie's world was Bolero Downs' based, rather ironic but fitting, the change in horse from steel to flesh for an ex-biker. But the call that was meant for him had found itself rerouted to Mary's phone, which begged extra caution until she knew what was going on. The one thing her gut insisted, however, was the plea for help was real, and someone was hurting in a bad way.

Only the rustling of the horses and occasional insect drone broke the relative silence of inactive part of stable's day on the backside. Mary's eyes darted about as she stepped measuredly along the row of stalls, weapon drawn but flush against her thigh to obscure its presence near the wall. Reaching the tack room – she was better versed in horse terminology than she'd ever admit to Marshall – she paused, slowing breathing and listening intently. She was rewarded.

Movements were vague, shifting of weight, mostly, but muted sobs and gulps for air told the marshal she had reached her target. Easing the door open as she stood aside, Mary took in a sight of pitiful proportions, even to her skeptical mind. A girl-child looking scruffy and torn, hair down, dark and scraggily, full of dried grass matter. Eyes wide in shock and fear at Mary's appearance. Body contorted with confliction: fight or flight?

"Shhh…" Mary began, stepping quietly in, leaving the door open but a crack to allow the sliver of light to enhance that from the high, narrow ones near the ceiling. Leather and oil permeated her nostrils, and distractedly she recalled vivid dalliances in such an atmosphere, the barn higher quality and private, the floor tile and clean. Years past.

"It's all right; I'm not here to hurt you." The girl's eyes darted accusingly toward Mary's right hand, her sidearm an obvious disagreement to her words. She tried to ease the girl's mind. "Don't worry about this," she said, indicating the weapon with a slight casual movement of the Glock. "I'm a…" She hesitated to say U.S. Marshal, since here she had been seen with Jackie, and didn't want him tied to any law enforcement. "I'm a woman on her own; a girl's gotta have _some_ protection, right?" The victim eyed her warily, still warring her next move.

Mary eased in further, left hand outstretched and down as though offering herself for inspection to a posturing dog. She wanted neither bite nor startle added to the mixture now. "So, Corinne…" Startled eyes at the use of her name. Same eyes flicked between Mary and the door, calculating distance. "How about we take a moment and check you out. I understand you've had a rough morning. Me, too. Um… How about we get you cleaned up a bit… could take you to the hospital if you –"

Suggestion meant to salve acted as liquid cayenne, and the girl's choice was made: flight.

Explosively she shot from her perch atop a tack trunk toward the doorway, and Mary's reflexes snagged the slight form around her midsection before she made it. Even one-armed, Mary found she could hold the girl, even with the latter's flailing to free herself.

"Easy, there; _easy!_" Mary tried, a trade off between brute strength to hold her and desperation to calm her. Right hand burdened, the older blonde couldn't risk using it to settle the matter, and found herself forced to pin Corinne face first against the wall, Mary using her hip to press the girl's lower back into the splintery wood.

Corinne twisted to her right, trying to elbow Mary in the chest, and when Mary threw her hip harder into the smaller body, Corinne yelped in pain and suddenly deflated, the fight gone out of her. Mary hesitated a moment, ensuring the unexpected compliance was not a feint, then eased up, a calming tone being forced from her heaving breaths.

"Hey… it's all right; I'm not here to hurt you, Corinne. I got the message you meant for Jackie." Corinne jerked as though attempting to flee again, then fell short with weariness. "I'm a friend of Jackie's. Seriously. So…" She released Corinne and turned her around, eyes, scanning her condition. Initial assessment correct, Mary only changed her estimation of age: Corinne was probably in her late twenties, early thirties. It was hard to tell beneath the grime and shadows, and she looked like she had been run through a mill. Compassion overwhelmed.

"I'm not gonna force you," she began, preparing for a repeat of moments earlier, "but it really does look like you could use a good once-over by a doctor."

"No, no doctors," came the quietly pained voice. A hint of Hispanic accent, but less so than a native speaker. Mary decided to play it her way, and gently redirected Corinne to the tack trunk just vacated. "And no police, either."

"All right, then," she conceded slowly, studying the girl. Mary wasn't sure why Corinne reacted as though she would be deported. She could be illegal – it was common enough on the backside of racetracks, all cash jobs with little to no adherence to I-9s and papers – but Mary knew enough of the world to know that as of yet, ICE wouldn't deport her necessarily for reporting a crime, especially as a victim. Surely Corinne would know that.

"But you do realize, though, that if you're seriously injured… I know a doctor who wouldn't question your Visa status –"

"I'm an America citizen," she shot back, though failing to engrain any heat into the statement. She'd paled, a fine sheen of sweat now visible against the striking gold of sunlight. She lightly held her left ribs with a cradling motion. Bruised? Mary hoped only so; she didn't want to consider internal injuries from whatever had happened.

"I've seen you with him," she suddenly said, casting Mary a look as the latter holstered her gun. "But he doesn't talk about you. Why would he tell you I called him?" Untrusting, cautious now. Watchful.

"You called _me_," Mary said slowly, careful with her words. Corinne fell perplexed, then straightened. She realized something, and the subsequent Heavenward plea and shallow sigh intimated it a buggered incident.

"God," Corinne murmured in frustration. With no rushed movements, her free left hand reached back into her jeans pocket and pulled out a small clamshell, visually dissected it, then frowned. "I've got Jackie's phone, which means he has mine. They're alike, you know," she said distractedly as though this were an everyday chat with a friend. "Speed Dial Number One must be you, then."

When Corinne offered nothing further, Mary took up the conversation.

"So… what happened?" Voice soft, compassionate. She hurt for this small woman, this companion of Marshall's witness, the same girl they'd seen in the cafeteria who'd run at the sight of them. The same friend Jackie had taken up for, had explained as her having an ex-husband she was hiding from. She took a stab at the silence.

"Corinne, would this have anything to do with your ex-husband?"

Corinne's response was abrupt, panicked. Her breath a noisy gasp of intake, held. Mary hurried to reassure.

"Hey, hey, calm down. Jackie said you had a nasty ex. If that's the case, I know some people, you know? A few well-placed words here or the–" But Corinne was already shaking her head adamantly.

"No, no…" Air _whooshed_ out of her lungs, though by worry or relief, Mary couldn't tell. "No, nothing to do with him." She bit her lip, weighing information she'd share. "Just a misunderstanding with one of the trainers."

"Corinne; you can press charges –"

"No!" Emphatic. Set.

Mary looked at the stubborn jaw, trembling slightly under the tense muscling.

"Fine, if that's what you want," she offered, knowing the younger woman had her reasons and, at this time, wasn't going to open the book for Mary to read. "Listen, I really do have a friend who's capable of patching you up without a word to anyone. He's good at keeping his mouth shut," _these days_, she mentally added. "He helps out at a clinic, so he knows what he's doing, but he won't say anything to anyone if I ask him not to. Okay?"

The hesitant, mute nod was all Mary needed, and she pulled out her phone, searched for and found the name and number she needed. One of Marshall's witnesses to fix another…

In the end Corinne gave in to a cursory check-up and clean up by the former Dr. Warren McBride, who had come a long way since his induction into the program, and was sincerely courteous and caring. Once patched, injected and wrapped, Corinne was returned to the racetrack, this time dropped off at her dormitory where she assured Mary she would be quite safe. In return, Mary left her number with the young woman, sure she would never bother to get it from Jackie's phone.

"Use it," the marshal commanded, gentle beneath her command. "I'd rather drive out here in the middle of the night and not need to, than read about you in the obits section the next day, got it?"

She at least received a nod of understanding.

**-o-0-o-**

His reflection was just beginning to take image in the ultra-thick glass, twilight offering a hazy backdrop for the mirror his window was becoming. Eyes focusing past the airtight portal, Marshall took in the shadows and muted greens of Southern Georgian landscape. Ritualistic flashes of the plane's lights reflected against humidity-drenched air, invoking a sense of silent urgency, a ticking schedule that must be adhered to…

Marshall let himself drift, envisioning sultry summer evenings on a porch swing, lazy and content. Soft, pliable feminine snuggled against him, crickets and bullfrogs chorusing their lives all around. Gentle breeze full of jasmine drifted about, ruffling his hair. Sliver of incandescent moonlight glow bouncing off waxy magnolia leaves. Old Georgian two-story settling, quiet with its childish occupants finally off to bed.

A heavy sigh built and faded, passing from his lips as little more than shallow exhale. Awash in sad understanding, Marshall came to a decision, and his body relaxed with acceptance. It was time.

**-o-0-o-**

He was cute enough, albeit too countrified for her taste. Garth Brooks on a regimen of weights and women. She didn't _have_ to talk to him, though. A willing and able body revved for action spoke volumes aplenty. Tomorrow wasn't even a factor; hell, not even morning's light would come into play. He was tall enough, fluent in Pick-Up, and just confident enough to keep buying her drinks. Mary could appreciate effort.

The Two Fools had been her first and only stop since leaving the office at a quarter past six. The emptiness of her home had held no appeal, and the office had been a desert as well. Mary didn't do well in complete desolation, and even in the tavern surrounded by a moderate crowd, she felt the ricochet of loneliness inside. She missed Marshall ridiculously, though she'd never admit that to anyone even under threat of maiming. He still hadn't answered her texts, and a call to his airline advised they were still delayed. So no one to even write for a break in solitary.

Moments like this, she even missed Raph. When he was not being pushy or inserting himself into her personal life. Or Brandi, when she wasn't being gullible and selfish, or her mom when _she_ wasn't being intoxicated and selfish. Now Stan was leaving for DC. Mary knew people, but didn't like people. Tolerated them, at best. Except for a handful, and none of those chosen few were available tonight for consultation.

"Hey, Sugar." The Texan drawl hadn't enough liquor to deepen to a proper level of sexy yet. He edged his Stetson up with a solitary finger, leaned in closer. Scents of stale sweat, bourbon and nicotine assaulted her, and she shut her eyes with a deep breath, trying to recall why she was there.

"How about we scamper off and find somewhere a little more conducive to a night of extracurricular fun 'n games?" He really was a cowboy, head to heel and lacked only the dust of the trail to cast him an extra from Gunsmoke. But he spoke with some education, reminding Mary of another cowboy with ten dollar words used as smoothly and naturally as the fine Irish whiskey she was now downing. The image settled heavily in her gut.

"No, I don't think so," she heard herself saying as she slid off the burnt-orange leathered barstool. Quick reach and down of a last shot, and she paused only to smile kindly. "Thanks for the drinks, but I don't think I need a cowboy tonight. Only one set of boots allowed on my coffee table, _Sugar_, and they ain't two-tone snakeskin."

Her own boots echoed on the hardwood floor, her exit into the sultry night a perplexing event. She'd just given up sure-thing sex for a night of friendship, and that friend wasn't even present to share it with. What the hell had gotten into her?

**-o-0-o-**

It was getting wearisome, this insane amount of emptiness everywhere she went. Ten after one in the morning, the terminal bathed in stark florescent with ramblings of miscellany personnel and whirl of unoccupied machinery. Cavernous. The difference this time, however, was an anchor she now drifted toward, a solid spark of warmth in the chilled void of an after-hours airport.

An excitement she tamped down fought its way through her stomach to land in a smirk upon her face as she waited just outside of security checkpoint for him. A handful of others milled about, craning necks to scout around the TSA point for incoming. Casually she leaned against a pillar between the restrooms. Arms crossed, Mary worked for a look that bled disdain into boredom. The fight was lost, however, the moment she caught sight of the figure half a head above the other weary passengers.

Shoulder bag draped like a stone weight, he stepped wearily into the public realm and glanced up, caught her image, and broke into a tired smile. Mary schooled her answering one, but it shone brightly in her eyes. Pushing off from her post, she ambled over toward him and turned left as she neared, leading them for the exit. Marshall's stride shifted to match hers, and they made their way to her Koupe in companionable silence. It was the richest quiet she'd known in too long a time.

"Thanks for picking me up at the last minute," he said once they were seated. He shook his head in wonder. "Seven hour delay on the tarmac over nesting alligators." Sigh. "_Good times_."

"That's what friends are for." Nonchalant shrug, ignoring the reptile opening. "Big favors in times of great need."

A sly grin pulled into place, gaze darting about the lot as she pulled out. The quip came naturally. "Does that mean I get to see you in your bra and panties? I'm in _great need_, you know."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Pervis?" she snorted.

His response came through that tight smile with a twinkle in his eyes, voice low, rough. "You have _no idea_…"

A furious blush swept across her cheeks and Mary gripped the steering wheel tighter. Suddenly the process of weaving through the airport parking lot toward the interstate was of great interest, compelling her silent focus.

She ignored her own threatening smile.

**-o-0-o-**

Sleep had come swiftly once Mary had gotten in bed earlier that morning, and though she'd only gotten a handful of hours' rest, energy enveloped her. So much so she found the time to not only stop at _Coffea Kiva_ to order Marshall's welcome home beverage, but still managed to step into the office a few minutes early.

Marshall's empty desk drew a furrow on her brow. Hum of voices, however, brought her attention to Stan's office where – to her utter surprise – Stan was ensconced with Marshall, door closed. She stared for a moment, wondering what had happened to cause Stan's untimely return. His attention was all on Marshall, both speaking with intent. When her chief noticed her, he smiled distractedly, strode across to his windows, and closed the blinds as he turned back toward his senior marshal.

Affront competed for dominance with concern, and the two had not reached a proclaimed winner when ten minutes later the office door opened. Marshall exited followed closely by Stan, lights flicked off and door locked.

"I'll let you know when I get back," McQueen was finishing to Marshall. He shuffled the briefcase with a topcoat and rummaged for his car keys. "Mary, please behave," he added, a knowing look on his face. "See you both Monday. Oh, and Marshall," he added as the door buzzed him through, "good luck." Eyes flicked to Mary and back, then he was gone.

"What the hell was that all about?" Apparently affront was winning.

"Oh, man stuff," her partner replied vaguely. The barely controlled grin on his face needed to be wiped away, Mary decided. It was not fair to be outside the joke when she'd waited too long just to have someone to share one with.

"Oh, here," she offered lightly, handing him her gift of friendship. _Remember, you're proving your worth here, Mary; earn the right to be on the inside of those jokes._

"What's this?" His own forehead creased in confusion as he sat, once more at home with his curiosities and files and an unhackable password to his computer.

"Thought you'd like a little taste of home, now that you're back," she supplied, seating herself and appearing to boot up her computer and sort through the mail left on her desk. Surreptitiously she watched for his reaction.

Untrustingly, he stared at the cardboard cup in his hand, and squinted against the name emblazoned upon it. Nervousness permeated the air. _Good_, she thought, amused. _Deserves it for keeping secrets from me._

The crème de la crème, however, was the moment he sniffed it, eyes widened, then took a sip. Mary swore he lost all color, eyes bright in fear as he stared over at her.

"Uh, Mare…?"

"Yeah, Marshall?" Cool, collected. Not even a glance at him.

"How did you know… uh…" Loss for words. Excellent.

"Isn't that your current favorite concoction?" she asked innocently. "We debated if you'd prefer that over their new flavor of the month, but in the end we figured the bite of the pumpkin would suit you more once the weather turned cool." Peripheral vision caught the additional blanch at the double-used 'we.' Pretending to check text messages, Mary managed a crooked picture of her partner's gobsmacked, terrified expression.

Concentration withheld the laugh, but she knew she couldn't do so much longer. Mary rose from her desk, locking the PC and grabbing the jacket she'd just discarded as she rolled her chair beneath the heavy wood. As she walked past Marshall on her way out the door, she tossed over her shoulder, "Oh, and you owe me a foot rub, buster. I intend to claim it, too."

That wiped that annoying little smile off his face.

**-o-0-o-**

Marshall never brought it up the rest of the week, but Mary felt sure Shae had explained their meet up, even if she didn't go into detail as to what was said. He seemed unnerved, and a part of Mary relished the power. But he also reverted to that damn secretive smile, something above his usual cheeriness. And when she broached the subject, he merely offered her a patent look of patronizing patience and said, "Ah, Mary, Mary, Mary… the world is blessed in a grace awaiting only the tender reaches of courage."

_Well fuck that_. Riddles were not her forté. Why had she missed him, again?

She'd filled him in on the drama of Jackie's friend Corinne, and Marshall grew concerned, looking for connections and possible threats with the incident so close on the heels of Bobby Dershowitz's investigation. They discussed options on follow-through and covert secondary snooping. And though Mary went home alone each night, there was a distinct lessening of lost at sea feeling about her. Every night she would receive at least one colloquial text or silly e-mail, and suddenly she wasn't alone anymore.

Saturday brought yard work put off for far too long, and a quiet stroll at dusk along a playground she'd come across after driving randomly for a few hours. By nightfall Mary had confiscated a canvas swing and shifted weight to and fro. Head back with hands gripping the chains, staring inquisitively at the stars. It was something Marshall would do, and she keenly felt his absence with the ritual. He had plans tonight with Shae; he had even briefly mentioned the fact in his exit from work the afternoon prior.

She didn't begrudge him, just noted with ever-increasing awareness their ever-increasing limitedness of time spent together outside professional considerations. Had he felt like that when she was with Raph? No. She knew this because she never had really spent much time out with Raph, even after they were engaged. Half the time she had been seeking refuge from Raph's ever-encroaching presence.

She'd have to suggest a hang-out night soon; she was missing her best friend.

Sunday came and went without human interaction at all. Mary organized her spare room with items she'd never ever unboxed upon moving, things the FBI had managed to leave mostly alone. Kitchen cabinets were cleaned out and rearranged, laundry caught up. Old films were watched and single-serving popcorn popped and downed with three Busch Lites. The quiet this time seemed rejuvenating if not cathartic.

On Monday morning, Mary swept into the office, strangely eager to greet the day's itinerary. She looked forward to normal being the baseline reading; Stan would be back, and she and Marshall could return to their duties in tandem. He'd been pleased with the wash of the GMC, but suspicious. Mary figured today she'd hit him up with a treating of lunch, though they weren't going to go overboard.

An odd air blanketed her the moment she buzzed through, and Mary couldn't quite place the sense of off-kilter. Quick view of Stan's office revealed he'd returned, though at the moment was absent from the area. Setting her accessories down at her desk, Mary shed her jacket just as Marshall slowly swaggered over toward her, eyes gleaming bright and a brilliant smile that couldn't have been forced off gracing his features. Hands behind his back, he resembled a teacher gloating over the pop quiz he was about to divulge. Still standing, Mary waited until he reached her.

"And a _superb_ morning to you, Mary Shannon," he began. An aura of pure happiness exuded from him, and Mary felt a tingle of…

"Let me begin this fine day by presenting to you…." He brought out his right hand before him, a small cream colored, heavy-stocked envelope pointing upward. If possible, his expression practically beamed. A sudden unease came over Mary. Whatever it was, it was a big deal. Her experience with big deals, however, entrusted they were never good.

But Marshall looked so excited, like a child animated, giddy over showing off his perfect art project.

"What's this?" she asked warily, as was her nature. Yeah; he was almost bouncing on his toes.

"As I know how you hate surprises," Marshall replied smugly, knowing expression creasing his eyes further. "I shall inform you now that this," he wavered the small parchment for effect, then flicked his wrist over toward her, presenting the envelope between thumb and two fingers. "…is your personal invitation to an engagement party."


	12. Ch 12: Studies in Breathing

**Disclaimer****: **Am considering petitioning for possession of Marshall, but if that fails…

**Author's Note:** 'gasp!' Another chapter within a week! Certainly a record.

Little action in this (hell, little dialogue in this), but lots of introspection, some awareness beginning to bloom. Oh, and I skimped on the editing for speed, so I may have to tweak later. Just, you know, FYI…

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts!

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 12: Studies in Breathing**

"_As I know how you hate surprises," Marshall replied smugly, knowing expression creasing his eyes further. "I shall inform you now that this," he wavered the small parchment for effect, then flicked his wrist over toward her, presenting the envelope between thumb and two fingers. "…is your personal invitation to an engagement party."_

Mary stared at the proffered card, frozen. Tunnel vision and sound faded in and out, leaving her oddly cold. When did she swallow that seven-pound stone settling heavily in her gut? And why was her face suddenly ice?

By force of some extraterrestrial will her arm lifted, fingers acquired the offending papyrus. Gaze on the man before her, held. Marshall was still grinning, excitable, happy. He turned and strode to his desk, humming as he went with little more than a brief cursory glance to her unmoving form. Only at that moment did a grimace mar his face, but even then just momentarily before perpetual joy returned. Attention on his monitor, his voice was instructive laced in humor.

"Yes, Mary, you are expected to attend," he preempted with amused exasperation. "You're a friend, and I will absolutely need your support and backup, regardless how distasteful you may find the duty." Still grinning. Still buoyant. Still typing away. "I'm in charge of all the details, since the bride-to-be is in no position to do it herself."

Mary stood another eternity before mechanically seating herself. Turn toward the computer; pretend normalcy. Glance furtively at the offending cardstock still in her hand. Her _trembling_ hand. When had that started?

Somewhere a clock ticked distinctively, echoing primitive thoughts of survival, of anticipation and anxiety of the _when_ of downfall. Why was this a downfall? she asked herself distractedly. Because… because it was just a matter of time before she would lose her best friend completely to his new –

The word wouldn't come. But she knew it, knew it instinctively. He would have less and less time for her – selfish, she knew, yes, but true all the same. His idiocyncracies and oddball knowledge and surprisingly healing words to her… they would vanish with a ring on that evenly-tanned finger. And she would be alone again, regardless how many cowboys she corralled for a ride. Wasn't the same as the intimacy of real friendship.

Slight crinkling drew her attention back to the card; gripping so tight, she was marring the fine linen embossed paper. Again it came back to her: time. How much time did she have before the words were declared by all that was holy and familiar? How long before her best friend – her only living friend – began the slow pull away? More so than that she'd seen in the past few months, a matter of her own doing.

Unsteady fingers broke the wax seal and withdrew in stops and starts the tastefully simple invitation, golden rings intertwined in relief – subtle, classy. Marshall.

Dry tongue darted nervously to wet chapped lips. Maybe, by knowing when, she could begin her own withdraw, her own self-protective, proactive plan. Ease the separation before it became a case of merely partners watching each other's back, working together to do a job. Nothing more, nothing less.

Flipping it open with definitive decision, Mary skimmed for the date.

Next weekend. The party. The wedding… two months' time.

Tunnel vision. Heat and chill flashed through her, nausea threatening. Two months. That was all. All the time before the deepest, longest-standing relationship she'd ever had in her life not bound by blood began to fade into obscurity.

Feeling masochistic, Mary forced herself to read every word of the finely scripted invitation, taking in the details of the typeset, the fabric-esque feel of the heavy paper. The eloquent verbiage that intimated romance and confessed an old soul of gallantry and chivalry. So Marshall, she could taste it.

And then…

Mary stopped. Stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. Stopped… everything. A second look. A third. No less than six carefully constructed run-bys. Until she viewed all through a blurred sheen. Dropping the card to her desk, she rose and skirted it in three moves, frantically wiping at one the invading saltwater.

"Hey, you okay?" Marshall's concern evident, she could only toss back a choked 'Something in my eye' poor excuse, but disappeared down the hall and to the ladies' before he could interrogate further.

In before the damn broke; in before legs gave way and she slid down the tiled wall, diaphragm demanding, lungs begging, and air finally allowed in her body. Rattling breaths, tingle of nerves awakening in her cheeks, fingers, belly…

…_request your presence to celebrate the engagement of Mr. Stanley Paul McQueen and Ms. Eleanor Holly Prince, on this day of…_

**-o-**

Seven and three-quarters minutes it took to compose herself, seeming something rational and intimidating rather than weepy female suffering hormonal mutiny. Mary softly made her way back down the hall, mentally preparing herself to turn back into Madam Smartass the moment she passed into Marshall's view. Voices, however, pulled her short of that line, pausing.

"So, d'you give it to her?" Trepidation. Stan.

"Yep." Mostly happy; smidgeon of acceptance.

"And?"

"And… she really didn't say anything. Come to think of it, not a word." Bewilderment edged into his response.

"Huh." Underlying Stan's own confusion was a sense of relief at Marshall's update. "Thanks for handling it. I really didn't want to hear the catty commentary the moment she realized…" Her chief trailed off, a knowing timbre to his voice. Marshall's answer mimicked it.

"That's what I'm here for, Stan." Rustle of papers, keys typed, pause again. Squeak of a chair, as if someone were leaning it to a side to peer around obstacles. Then her partner's voice lowered some.

"So what's it look like for when Eleanor'll move back to Albuquerque?" Indoor voice, secretive.

Stan's half-sigh, half-groan flowed easily to Mary. She was fascinated, for reasons inexplicable.

"Depends how long it takes to get her transferred out of HQ. She's been in DC long enough that the FBI would consider moving her to a field office if all the cards are played with a marked deck. We're hoping SAC Lee is willing to take on an analyst with marshal ties." Mary could see without sight the tight-muscled hand worrying over lined eyes. "Until then, we'll keep up the long distance. We're old enough to know the value in it; keeps a bit of the romance alive, you know?"

A deep, low chuckle pervaded her chest; Marshall was such a – well, yeah, a girl in terms of romance and sensitivity. But there was something to be said for doors being opened, poems left on Post-It Notes, a foot massage…

"Nice job on the invitations, by the way. El called me this morning. You FedEx'd her one; she adored it. Said you could handle the details of the wedding, too, if the engagement party flies as classy."

"Good practice for me," Marshall said, and Mary felt a stab of something breaking her peaceful feeling. Turning, she slipped back down the hall, shoved the restroom door so that it slammed shut, and heavily marched back to her desk. It did not escape her notice Chief McQueen had barricaded himself in his office, Marshall once more busy with work.

Silence reigned the morning, until 10:43 when Mary announced the need for a Big Gulp before her first witness' check-up. Marshall followed with a grin, notepad handy for party plan lists.

**-o-0-o-**

The week had been progressing well. Witnesses were behaved, mostly. Newly inducted teenage boy settled into boarding school. Minor crises with strippers' convention attendees showing up at the Thai restaurant Mary's former-stripper Marion D'Ablo waitressed, averted. Plans finalized with the party Saturday night. So what, then, was making Marshall so unsettled all week?

Quick glance to his right exuded a plea of long-suffering and impatience. Mary was still on his phone. Marshall navigated Friday afternoon traffic while she chattered on, her side of the conversation distracting.

"Wednesday sounds great…" Perky enough to be friendly, low-keyed enough to be genuine. Mary was actually enjoying this call. Marshall caught a sly look from her that set his senses to edge; what the hell was she telling his partner?

"Oh, _yeah…_" Mary's voice drew out the affirmative, lower, sultry… Damn. This couldn't be good. Now he was getting concerned, but knew any overt suggestion for Mary to give up the phone would be taken as weakness; he had to suffer with dignity and bluff.

Never mind that following that phrase was more of Mary's commentary, suspicious expressions and pornographic tone. _God_, but he… No. No, he was not going to react to it. Absolutely not. He was happy with Shae, had a new life with her. They complemented each other so well. He could feel her affections, talk to her, relax with her and share his life and passions with her. He'd realized on the plane coming home last week that he could truly envision building a life with her. That was where his heart lay, around which his future was building, growing. Where he would finally find inner peace. And soon he would –

Biochemistry was a different animal altogether, however. Every syllable Mary uttered spun a fine and delicate web deep in him, every breath a flutter to that silken lair. Alerting. Tantalizing. Vibrating that intricate mesh of nerves. And she was talking to his _girlfriend_, damn it. That. _That_ was a sliver of his unease this week: Shae and Mary's communications. They had talked several times, Shae calling Marshall, then after a few minutes requesting to speak with Mary. It unnerved him, and possibly for reasons not of the surface variety. He honestly did not want to consider any which were patterned after remnants lying about from a world left behind months ago.

"Don't think that by refusing the technology, you're conveniently refusing the job. I'm not inheriting all your work today, Space Cadet." Mary's sarcasm snapped him from the reverie he'd longed to abandon. She was holding out his cell in offer. "If it doesn't work for _me_ that way, it most certainly doesn't get applied to you, either."

"Oh." _Brilliant, Sherlock_. Marshall quickly stepped from self-chastisement and on to an appropriate comeback. "Sorry," he drawled, pocketing his phone whilst focusing on a left turn. "Your ear has been attached to my phone so much all week... while conversing with _my_ girlfriend… I was having an identity lapse." He paused. "The crises came later when I feared I'd grown boobs and PMS. Plus, my skin tones don't pull off blond well."

The sharp backhand to his upper cheekbone stung. Marshall cringed, throwing too late a shoulder up in defense. "Damn it, Mare; trying to drive here, in case you failed to take note of the moving vehicles all about us and the forward motion of the very motorized contraption in which you currently find yourself encased."

A few crude and rude remarks followed, a witness visit, then once more Marshall's mind drifted with the miles as they headed out of town to see one of Mary's older, less sociable cases. Never one to enjoy silence, Mary must have discovered something beyond moodiness with this particular stretch of introspection.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked abruptly. Marshall started. "You just seem… off. Seriously, what's bugging you? You're not yourself, and it's really worrying me." Evident in her concern, Marshall forewent the glib retort forming automatically in his head.

"Mary…" he began, then sighed with the frustration of finding words to fit. Words that explained enough to ease his best friend's fears, yet words that told nothing of the root. "There are some things in my life that I just … _can't_ talk to you about."

"_Why?_ Hell, there's not a damn thing I don't tell you. Even my woman stuff I share with you."

"Er, yeah, about that…"

"C'mon Marshall. You hurt, I hurt. If I can't help directly, I can always provide the proverbial ear and a damn fine bottle of whiskey."

Unbidden, a small smile pulled crookedly at Marshall's mouth. Mary might be rough as fifty-cent sandpaper, but her love for a friend was as beaming and encompassing as a supernova star. He didn't want to miss out on mending that closeness; a true friend would share these distracting apprehensions with her. The hurt in her face at his withdraw, his hesitation, was apparent. Yet how could he admit the dilemma now pulling him in diametrically opposite directions? Not when she was a grand part of that emotional turmoil. She'd see through a lie, too, with that crystal clear vision she had when it came to his words.

He just wanted things normal once more, that easy camaraderie that forced them both to expect the best from themselves, to step outside humdrum solo lives. Confidences shared with a meeting of the eyes, a twitch of facial muscles. That connection. He just wanted his friendship with her back. Without the complications. Without _his _complications.

"As much as I would love to partake in said brew with you right now…" He managed a weak, if not honest, smile, turning to meet her animated face before focusing again on the road. "Let's just call it a Man Thing and leave it at that for now, okay? And regardless of your penchant for violent weaponry, Naval-worthy speech and blatant disregard for all things girly, you are, in fact, not a man." This time he cast her a marginally larger smile, reaching his eyes with a wistful humor.

Just as she drew breath for an answer, he beat her to it, rapidly clarifying, "And I really, truly am, Mare. Regardless your characterization of me based on my tendencies toward greater sensitivity and detailed orientation than many of my gender." He flashed her a smirk and was relieved to see her own returned, a devilish gleam in her eyes. Score one for Marshall.

**-o-**

Stepping off the remodeled freight elevator complete with cage and aged wooden doors, Marshall walked down his small foyer toward the stairwell, stopping and turning to his left. His front door slid to the right, its secure track heavy, its 1940's warehouse design complementing his eclectic, open loft. Relocking it after stepping through, Marshall flicked the switch next to the door. Wall sconces and floor lamps lit throughout. Classic 40's architecture lay at the base of all around, bled through every crown-molded nook and cranny. By now dusk had ridden itself over Albuquerque, issuing forth the barest of glow from the skylights before the lights had intruded, became a void of darkness after they spread their artificial beams.

Marshall tossed his keys on the low block-glass half-wall to his right that shielded a reading nook from the vast airiness of the living area before him. Mail he flipped on the granite counter as he turned opposite the wall toward the open kitchen, a beer calling him with its infinite wisdom. Bypassing the fridge his first go-round, he walked straight into the butler's pantry that lay between the kitchen and spare bedroom (opposite his own boudoir). A distinct craving for baked Cheetos propelled the fit marshal into a bounty of other tidbits. By the time he made his way back out and to his beer, arms were laden with a fresh block of sharp cheddar, pre-sliced pepperonis, club crackers, spicy brown mustard and, of course, the cheetah's crunchy crisps.

And a six pack of Heineken.

He could really go for a storm tonight, he told himself, taking the hallway exit from the kitchen to walk right and catty-corner across his living room. It would fit his mood and mind, a turbulence of life out of control, destiny warring with what fate will allow. Passing the antique dining table on his left and veering toward the small array of seating options in the middle of the vast room, Marshall paused, debating. The plush papasan chair before the free-standing flat screen made the best combination of comfort and security. The latter would be useful should he follow through with initial intent and imbibe the entire carton of alcohol. He'd prefer no marks or concussions from falling out of another reclining piece.

_Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph_. What had he set himself up for, volunteering to help out Eleanor and plan out her engagement party? At first he had been joyous, tickled pink and beyond that after Stan had confided to Marshall in his office before leaving for DC that he was going to propose to the former office assistant, she had said 'yes.' Stan had called him, given him the details, then Eleanor had asked if Marshall could help her out, since she wanted the wedding and celebrations in Albuquerque. He'd agreed, almost giddy with the task.

And he _had_ enjoyed it, he reflected. What he _hadn't _anticipated was the overwhelming ache that began quietly somewhere deep in his chest, spreading like heat from an infection. More and more marital bliss, inescapable adoration coming to a fruition long anticipated, heavily entrenched like the root system of a hundred-year-old oak tree. All of it faced him with a beckoning appeal, softly chanting to infuse himself with that connection, that happiness. And he thought of Shae, thought of the promise he'd made himself on the plane, and reflected he was making the right choice. The necessary choice. What unnerved him, however, was the sudden relationship between Shae and Mary. It made him uneasy, in ways he simply could not define.

Intent upon diversion from errant and dangerous thoughts, Marshall settled his booty upon the centerpiece coffee table, drew off his boots and curled himself into the deep, cushioned chair. The expected remote, however, was not to be located. Sighing in that half-annoyed, half-expected way, he thought back to the last time he'd had it, and…

Un-pretzeling himself, Marshall rose and walked past the television, angling to the left where the forty-five degree entrance wall of his library met him in four easy strides. The inwardly constructed corner room helped to section off the western side of the floor plan, built against the back wall with a bay window overlooking his back garden.

Easing open the double French doors, Marshall flicked the European wall switch, another grouping of antique sconces lighting his favorite room. But tonight he took little notice of the hodge-podge of ancient maps framed upon the wall, the endless bookshelves of tomes and Egyptian statuettes; of snow globes and hand-drawn calligraphy; of world globes and feathered quills and scientific gadgets that would have earned a smile from Einstein. No, tonight Marshall strode directly to his desk, ignoring the landscaped view of mountains in the distance and instead reached around telescope and stack of astronomy notes for the remote device he'd carried with him while on the phone, having been disrupted flipping between games last Sunday.

As long, nimble fingers wrapped about the tool, Marshall's eyes caught the document he'd left out in his search for Sunday's question of invoice from an order. His Last Will and Testament. The pause lasted three slow breaths, then he turned with his tamer of gadgets and made his way back to refuge. But even as he settled in with fare and film, Marshall couldn't shake the thoughts that ran rampant through his mind. Reminders of what could happen, who would be left, how would anyone know the significance of the velvet-lined cat mask that hung from his etched Guinness mirror…

Distraction wasn't working. What he needed now was connection, a voice to soothe his nerves, reiteration that he wasn't in this life alone.

Pawing for his phone, he muted the television and dialed.

**-o-0-o-**

Aroma and flavor blended in the spicy curry, burning her mouth in the loveliest torture she'd known in some time. Mary savored the concoction, every bite bliss about her tongue. Even the uncontrolled moan deep in her throat was of little consequence. Eyes closed, head tilted back, slow chew.

"I think you've really won my sister over now, Peter." While Mary missed much of the conversation, her sister's giggle was not to be part of the background noise. But what could she say? Peter was a damn fine cook.

"I promise to send leftovers home with you," her future brother-in-law was saying, and Mary swallowed and resumed awareness of surroundings. Even informally, Peter's presentation of dinner ranked beautifully with fine tablecloth, candles, delicately patterned stoneware.

"Peter, I willingly trade you my sister for continued cuisine of this caliber. You have my blessing; go do with her as you will." She swept her sister with a royal gesture of inclusion and took another full bite of her meal. A mental note was made to always accept dinner invitations when Peter was cooking.

Without looking Mary could see the blush Brandi revealed, heard the laughter around the table, the loving words of affection between betrothed. The evening had been nice; even her mother was behaving.

"So, Mary," Jinx began, pleasant in voice. "When are we going to finally get you settled down with a good man?"

Or not.

"_Mom!_" Brandi's embarrassed hiss shot out. Mary swallowed, this time the food feeling as sawdust. Jinx caught the baleful look her oldest threw her.

"Well, Sweetie, I don't mean to be cruel, it's just that… well, I hate to see you all alone. I know you have your job and all, but it doesn't keep you company in the middle of the night."

"Who says I have to be married to be _kept company_ through the night?" she tossed back, an arched brow daring her mother to go down that road. Mary was just waiting for…

"Oh, Honey, I know you and Raphael didn't –"

…and, bingo.

"Mom, we are _so_ not discussing Raph," she interrupted, fork down, need for a drink. Time to think, to regain control. "I've tried the marriage bit before, for all the wrong reasons. I have too much respect for it to do that again."

"Mom, you know," Brandi slipped in, surprising Mary with her intuitive intervention. Maybe she was growing up. "Mary and Chico really weren't that compatible. I think she made the right decision, and when the right man comes along, she'll know it. You can't force her to find him."

Mary, in spite of herself, grinned crookedly at her little sister. Brandi smiled back.

"But how are you going to find him with that job of yours?" her mother went on, unaware – or perhaps just not caring – of the Pandora's Box upon which she knocked. "Sitting around in a courthouse all day, you're only going to meet derelicts on trial and married lawyers."

"Maybe Mary's already met her soul mate," Brandi countered. Mary noticed Peter was staying out of this, studious in his stirring of the sauce.

"What's that supposed to mean?" It was Mary's turn for questions, this one mingled in anger and hurt. "What, I met him, screwed up, and now he's passed me by and has three kids and a yacht in Hoboken?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying," her sister clarified. "Maybe you've met him somewhere, see him on occasion, and just don't realize you're attracted to him. Then one day – bam! – you'll figure out he's cute and charming and you'll live happily ever after."

Mary's eyes rolled heavenward, begging for strength. "Right, Brandi; and little leprechauns will start dancing naked around a May Day pole in my back yard, bearing gifts of Fig Newtons and ha' pennies."

"Mary, that's no way to talk to your sister." Jinx's scold was appalled, as though Mary had unleashed a verbal lashing to equal her naughtiest witness. Then in a whiplash move, the matriarch switched to crooning and hopeful. "And you do need to get a move on it, Mary; you're not getting any younger. What about having children?"

"Who said I wanted children?" Mary asked, flustered at the flashing image of a dream, descended belly and large hands wrapped lovingly, protectively, possessively about it. "Why would I want to bring kids into this fucked-up world, huh? I've seen enough shit to know I don't want to subject any other living soul to this insanity we've created."

Her mother's mouth opened, then a flick of her eyes to her left and suddenly it closed again. Mary cast about and realized Peter must have silenced her, though he was only watching the ladle slowly slip along the porcelain bowl rim, low grating left in its wake.

"Thanks for dinner, Peter," Mary offered as she stood. "I've really got to get home." With no further excuse, Mary left the table and ventured into the living room.

Settling on an ottoman, she bent to pull on the boots she'd shed upon arrival. Feet sore, it had been a homely thing to do, a level of comfort she wasn't aware she would feel in her sister's new home. As she busied herself with ties, she heard the footsteps before the arms slid around her shoulders from behind. Gardenias wafted to her nose, silky hair and petal soft skin met her cheek.

The hug was secure, amazing far from awkward.

"I want to have children someday, Mary," Brandi said softly. "And you know why I don't mind bringing them into this crazy world?" A brief pause for the nonexistent reply. "Because I know _you're_ out there, making it safe for them."

Unbidden, Mary's hand came up to gently clasp her sister's joined ones before her. A full minute passed in such manner until the light tread behind them greeted their personal display with all the aplomb of Ms. Manners.

"Don't spoil your dinner tomorrow night," Peter _tsked _with a smile, handing Mary a lidded Tupperware still radiating heat. "And please give your boss our deepest congratulations."

Mary stood and turned to give Brandi a hug, then inexplicably followed up with one for Peter. "Thanks," she offered quietly. Jacket donned, Mary left the house quickly, settled into her car and found herself driving.

Lights came and went; traffic thinned. Temperature dropped; wild nightlife sounded. Parts of town she knew, others vaguely, many changed. The curry was cold by the time she realized she needed to talk to someone, a voice that reassured her and calmed her and told her what to do in a way that made her believe it was her own decision. Because that voice knew her.

The digital clock on the dash read after one in the morning. She dialed anyway.

"Hey." Soft, easy.

"Hey," she answered, sudden relief at the sound. "Got a few minutes?"

"For you, always."

**-o-**

Marshall spoke low, even, listening more often than offering sage words. The decibels made his voice sound gravelly, and he noted Mary's was the same the longer she spoke. She was relaxing, winding down.

Distractedly he noted the dim reflection of the floor lamps off the deep forest green walls, the flashing bright flickers of the muted television. He shifted slightly on the couch, one bare foot arched on the coffee table edge, the other stretched beneath it. _I can do this,_ he thought to himself with a relieved smile. _Yeah; I really can make it all work. I still have my best friend._

The realization he didn't have to choose between polar opposite lives eased his heart some, and Marshall leaned his head back against the couch with a tired smile. One hand grasping his phone, the other distractedly smoothing long chestnut locks of the sleeping form whose head lay trustingly upon his lap.


	13. Ch 13: Casting Roles

**Disclaimer****: **In Plain Sight no be mine.

**Author's Note:** Many thanks to my ever-supportive, wonderful readers. Nod of appreciation to Bujyo for dance terminology. Extra-specially long chapter; should tide you over for a bit.

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts!

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 13: Casting Roles**

Tendrils of daylight reached around the back of faux suede, curled in refraction from framed foreign play posters upon the wall opposite, from block glass wall alongside it, to return. Snippets of these particles of early morning teased him to consciousness. Marshall woke vaguely coherent, taking in his living room with a bleary glance. Shae.

Uncurling himself, he sat up stiffly on the couch, recalling vividly his efforts to put her to bed last night – this morning – in his own bed. Two spare bedrooms, and instead he'd put her in the master and slept out on the couch himself. Symbolic, perhaps? She was in his bed, but he wasn't quite there with her. It was too early to attempt reasoning for that; food for thought later, however, he was positive.

Marshall slowly made his way to the bath on the western side of the loft, the long full room adjacent to the third bedroom in the northwest corner, that just opposite his library. He was beyond hesitant to disturb Shae; it was only just after six. Ministrations complete, he ventured back out, bare feet silent on the scrubbed hardwood, cool and smooth beneath. Pausing just past the extended interior wall of the library, he took a moment to gaze past the corner-nook of artistic shelves, drafting board and exercise equipment to peer out the floor to ceiling glass.

Though Marshall was a morning person, he was a quiet, reflective morning person. He greeted the day with contemplation and assessment. Weary eyes examined the city across his backyard, around the potted trees and water feature, over the pebbled walks and tiered flower beds. Sunlight reflected from rows of office windows across the way, waking the silent room with a gentle touch. A coffee within the small Japanese gazebo would best start his day, but Marshall recalled that today was Saturday – the Saturday of Stan and Eleanor's engagement party. He had much to do: decorating, band, caterer. No lazing about, regardless how appealing an all day movie-fest in his home theater sounded.

Resigned to start the adventure responsibly, Marshall ventured past the kitchen to the door on his right and carefully slipped in.

His master suite was always a source of quiet pride, a room full of light from the southern half pentagon of ten-foot safety glass, French doors to a private patio of wooden walkway and foliage and bistro table. Three strides in and he was past the first of the his and her walk-ins on the right – separated by a dressing vanity – and the inset wall to his left, at the far easterly corner of which lay the door the master bath. To his right and away, filling a vast portion of centered floor space lay his bed, Shinto platform in design. White gauzy chiffon draped from ceiling-suspended canopy rails. The pale ash wood centered the pale gray, cobalt and white room, lent the airiness a focal point. And upon that focal point of chocolate and ice blue fabric lay the curves and flesh and buoyant spirit of his future.

Long moments passed and Marshall found himself inhaling deeply, regrouping. Conscientiously pulling his gaze, he gathered necessary items and retreated back across the loft to change. In four minutes he was out the door, down the freight elevator, on the street. Running.

Cleared mind made for a fresh sheet on which to lay ponderings. Concerns. Breaths in, scents of sage and desert and tar and frying bacon. Exhalations of tension and cloudiness of emotion, conflicts. _Pound, pound, pound_… two hundred pounds pounding with each step, driving into pavement with surety and conviction. No lapse, no hesitation… faith a solid landing was there, just as expected. No question. No worry.

Harsh through bronchial tubes raw from days spent in grit-filled atmosphere of the race track, the air flowed. Knowing its way without direction or mislead. Life's choices should be the same: natural flow, instinct. Rhythm easy and without misstep. And Love… Love was the air. In… Replenish. Out to the world. Repeat; cycle. Without study or fault.

Then why the hell wasn't it? What was this… _hesitation_… holding his natural flow of lust and love and family and home back?

Mary.

_Whooh. Whooh. Whooh_. Burn, now. Labored.

So… Mary. Of course Mary. But he'd given up that dream months ago. And despite occasional ingrained physical reaction, he had come to terms with that fact, had entered this relationship with Shae with fairly clear head and heart and optimism. And they were good together – truly. A little awkward at first, but he'd come to be relatively at ease with her pregnancy and its place in their lives. It was something he held off considering until he could see a future there, then he spent some time and came to a comfortable place with it. So if all was on track, and he'd made solid decisions concerning her – _them_ – then what was it with Mary that was leaving him feeling so… so…

Unsettled?

He'd let his hopes for a romantic future with his partner to die away; released them into the mystic, into the Great Beyond. Wherever. Throes, a fight to the bitter end. But acceptance had struggled and found footing, and he'd walked away into opportunity for a real life instead of one full of pining, unrequited affections. With the sword of Truth he had executed false hope and turned to walk amongst the living.

Closure. The word slapped him with the death analogy, and suddenly it all made sense. Well, at least as much as he could fathom at the moment.

He had indeed smothered his love for Mary until it breathed no more, but like all passings, even this one needed proper wake and burial. He had not had his closure, something needed after so long and so deep a part of him. Marshall needed to bid a farewell with all the finality to the life he had turned from months prior.

Yes, that was it. Closure.

Realizing the missing link, acceptance won out and he relaxed, taking in the last half mile with tired but easy stride. Last night had reassured him he could have Shae and Mary's friendship both, and that had allayed much of his fears. So now it was only that epilogue he needed to finish the story. Let that knowledge simmer for a while, and the natural, proper answer would come in its own time. How best to put to bed the shell left behind? He would know, and it would be soon; he had, after all, a life to get back to living.

Bounding up the front steps, he pulled the door, started in, then stepped back in a hold.

"Good morning, Mrs. Petowski," he greeted as the elderly woman ambled through, soft arms laden with an open-topped box. Hodgepodge of brightly colored yarns, construction paper, stencils and other craft materials stuck out in imitation of escape. "Youth Center duty today?"

She beamed at him, bright blue eyes only two shades darker than her coif above.

"Why, thank you, Marshall," she replied, head nod to his role of doorman. "And yes, off to amuse the little derelicts right now, as a matter of fact."

She was just clearing the door when a thought occurred to her, facial expression evident this fact, and turned to him.

"Oh, and Marshall, dear…?"

"Yes, Mrs. Petowski?" Eyes wide with amusement.

"Since you're a law enforcement officer, and you've been here longer than any of the rest of us… could you talk to the building's management and see if we could get some pink rose bushes or some daisies or something happy planted out front here by the walk? It's dreadful sad this time of year; everything's withered in this horrid heat."

Marshall checked the chuckle and nodded solemnly. "I'll see what I can do."

"Good, good. I figure if they don't listen, your six-shooter there would make 'em perk right up."

Marshall watched after her until the perky great-grandmother got into her chauffeured car; he knew better than to try to help her, as he'd learned many times before the sting of her matronly slap upon his ever-helpful hands. Fiercely independent, that one.

Making a mental note to check up on 'happy flowering plants,' Marshall continued into the restored tiled lobby and slipped into the awaiting elevator, the air conditioning instantly cooling sweat all over his body.

Once ensconced in the loft again, he paused to listen. Still asleep, he gauged, then realized the time and chastised himself. Of course she was; it was barely after seven.

Dutifully he walked toward the back wall of glass and turned right just shy of the French doors. The corner of glass and library made for a tidy out-of-the-way hole for his gym-in-one. Methodically his workout went, reminding muscles their vacation was over. Thankfully exertions were strenuous enough this time to keep out unwanted ponderings and unanswerable questions. Running stole his breath; this sapped everything.

Unfortunately, the follow-up hot shower (in the bath between Bedroom Three and the utility room… again) did little but relax him and leave thoughts running rampant. More and more consideration came that perhaps he needed to take proactive approaches to this setback. It was time to create closure for his romantic inclinations toward his partner, and today they would be together, alone, for several hours. No witnesses, no public, no work… just decorating. Perfect.

Feeling a sense of relief, Marshall dried, dressed in a cobalt blue tee and jeans, and stepped out to the heavenly scent of bacon frying.

"Good morning, Mr. Up-n-at'em." Husky with disuse, Shae's voice was full of soft amusement, and Marshall ventured over to lean upon the bar, watching. She moved gracefully about the kitchen, obviously enjoying her chore. "Now that you've worked the calories off, time to retrieve those bit of energy…"

She was easy – so bloody easy – to talk to. Conversation flowed without effort, without rancor. It was a Southern thing, her enjoyment of cooking. Calmed her down, the routine and creation with a readily visible ending result a sense of accomplishment. And with cooking came a lively kitchen. Just as when they'd made dinner at her apartment, the entire preparation involved chatter and serious discussion and lighthearted observations and whimsical tidbits. And it was all… so… _easy_.

"All right, I've got to get home. Promised I'd take a few hours during the crazy part of today." Shae was gathering her things, flitting about to verify she'd left nothing needed.

"I'll pick you up at six-thirty, then," he replied, following her to the door.

"Good; that'll give me a couple hours to nap before then," she returned with a smile. "Then I'll toss on my glad rags and be ready to party." Self-deprecating grin followed. "If you see me standing outside naked, that's your cue to run down the Sportsman's store and buy me a tent. Might be the only thing I can fit into by now."

"You could wear a Coleman Five-Man," he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek then whisper to a soft, delicate ear, "and still pull off a Fuzzy Navel."

"Hmm?"

Chuckling lowly, he explained as hands found their way around her lower back, lips against her jaw.

"All Southern peach and sticky-sweet with a delightfully intoxicating center…"

The kiss was deep, hungry, her attack upon his lips leaving him moments of pause before returning the energy. Warm and sweet and so very lively… it had been so long…

She pulled away abruptly, leaving hands circled about his neck, pulling him down to her.

"I've got to go, Marshall," she half-pleaded, though flushed face and parted lips exclaimed something else entirely. Then abruptly she smiled that half, crooked grin, eyes gleaming. "However, we definitely need to pick this conversation back up. And soon."

"Count on it," he replied without thought, eyes focused wholly on the woman before him.

"Excellent," she replied, then pop-kissed him again. "That's why I love you," she stated, then, giving a wink, turned and left him standing there, eyes following her through the closed door.

He needed another shower, to cleanse the sticky-sweet jones growing in him. Frigid this time.

**-o-0-o-**

Pacing her walk, Mary had just turned for another lap when the man she'd been subtly cursing pulled into her drive. Not even time to put the truck in park, she was already climbing in, seatbelt buckled and tossing him an expectant look.

Marshall's face read bemusement, his tongue momentarily silent. "What?" she barked.

Finally words were drawn, and he backed out of her drive as he spoke them. Slowly and carefully.

"You were waiting on me. Outside. Early. Purposely."

"Mono-word sentences don't become you. And yes, I was waiting on you. Outside. Early," she reiterated peevishly, huffing and turning to look out over morning Albuquerque. Explaining that she'd been restless, unable to sleep, and anxious for him to pick up her certainly wasn't on her top-priority list today. In fact, not a single bit of that made the first-round cut. She didn't understand, herself. Gut feeling. Stress.

"I was hungry, all right?" she snapped, grasping for an excuse. The words, however, were balm and Marshall's expression cleared in relief. Apparently this was an explanation he could live with, and Mary let it ride. "Dragging my ass out of home and hearth God-awful early on a Saturday to play Room Mother to an engagement party I don't even want to attend warrants a breakfast provided by said party's Maid of All Things Crepe, don't you think?"

"Ahhh…" This relaxed Marshall even more, and Mary knew her choice of reasons was well picked. The question was why it was needed in the first place. Little time was there to consider, however. Marshall reached down to his floorboard, eyes still road steady, and pulled up a large white paper bag, handing it to her with a smirk.

"And for She Who Expects Feeding, I bring you tidings of great joy… and frosting."

Overcome with child-like fervor, Mary delved into the bag to find a frothy cappuccino and a chocolate-frosted, custard-filled pastry, complete with an extra dollop of white cream on top. Damn, the man was good.

And she _was_ sort of hungry.

Three bites of sugary Promised Land and four gulps later, conscience dug at Mary and reminded her of promises made to self. Studying the cardboard container, she steadied voice and mind.

"Thank you, Marshall. For picking me up. For breakfast. For…" She gestured with a raised hand of partial doughnut, then cup. "For knowing me."

Peripherally catching the shocked, once-more-concerned expression washing over his face, Mary scolded herself. Damn it; she wanted to be a good friend and remember to thank him for all he did – she truly did appreciate him. But everything she said and did to tell him that seemed to frighten him. Was she really that lacking in showing gratitude to the one man she trusted and relied upon the most that her expressions of genuine thankfulness unnerved him? Reflecting, Mary considered perhaps she should leave it simply at 'thank you' for a while. At least until his skittishness eased.

"So when's the bride-to-be flying in?" she asked, reverting to normalcy.

"Not until this afternoon," he supplied, attention on Saturday morning traffic.

"What, her broom require re-twigging or something?"

"You're reiterating a condemnation that failed to be justified even during the period of time in which you shared a workspace with Eleanor," he monotoned, that slight professor's tone chastising her in a less-than-subtle lesson. She snorted.

"Justification just means you and your Spock-like logic require some Good versus Evil line of demarcation to be crossed; I don't work that way."

"So I've noticed," he intoned. "But judicial justification just necessitates a genuine gesture – for good or ill – for which a _reasonable_ conclusion can be drawn and acted upon."

"Jesus, George," she huffed, eyes rolling. "Genuine gestures just justify judicial justification just because _you_ justify jeering me for my geriatric jests when you were jilted joining Jolly Jail Jockeys last Christmas."

"Holly Locks and Keys, Mare," he corrected with a baleful sidelong. "And just because judicial justification just generates Jealousy Jane jog–" He suddenly pulled up short, tongue caught in a mental clink. Pause of magnitude, then he gave her a telling look and with a heavy sigh, "Okay; you win."

Mary beamed. "Damn straight." Another bite of doughnut…

**-o-**

"Corinne sent me a text last night." Mary settled her weight evenly on the highest level, the step ladder wobbling with every shift. American Legion Hall Post 49, scene of what would become yet another endured social event in the name of friendship. She glowered before her. The ceiling-wall joint affixed her with daunting invitation. Marshall, his height an advantage, stood one rung lower on his own, two feet away. She fed him length of burgundy streamer from the roll in her hand.

"And…?" he prompted, studying the crepe as twists and darting allowed for elegant drapes. Visually measuring in comparison with completed sections, Marshall adjusted the location of pushpin and leaned light back. Studying. Comparing. Tweaking.

"And… she wants me to talk Jackie down, convince him to let her handle her ex herself. Oh, like that ever works."

"Think it was her ex that had her roughed up last week?" Finished with that mark, Marshall disembarked, retrieved the dangling strand of Christmas lights, and re-alighted, handing the coiled bulk to Mary.

"Maybe. Though, for a woman supposedly gun-shy about people because she's hiding out from Mike Tyson Wannabe," Mary speculated, "she's Cucumber Charlie about it now."

"Could be she's simply trying to protect Jackie," he countered, affixing lights and testing strength of tacks. "If she thinks the ex would cause her close friend problems…" He shrugged, mind obviously multitasking.

Seeing the string of electrical wire hold, Marshall turned back to dig through the plastic tote on his ladder. Wall and ceiling frou-frouery was dispensed, and Mary shook her head in impatience at the excess. She hated prepping for parties, despised frillies. If it weren't for Marshall's guilty recruitment and her unspoken affection for Stan, she'd be home right now, doing... well, something. She did have a life outside work. It was just taking her some time to sort out what exactly it entailed, once stripped of mooching, chaotic family and clingy fiancé.

"Possible," she conceded, mind drifting to another branch of thought. "Or maybe she's decided to reconcile. Maybe the ex thought she and Jackie were playing Ride-along Cassidy themselves and got all kinds of jealous, knocked her around some to show how much he cared, and now Corinne sees him as the Tarzan she's always loved. Leaving Jackie just caught up in the middle."

Mary paused mid-clip with the la_mé_ star. "Friendships get beat to all kinds of hell when you introduce a third party who's tappin' one of the original two."

Marshall merely grunted noncommittally, several partially-unbent paperclips in his mouth. He was peering questioningly at the ceiling, glancing over the room as a whole, then to hands shaping the fold-out foil ornament.

"So you don't think…" Mary trailed off, voice small with insecurity vying with fight. She snapped the star in place then went on to picking up the light strand slack. "You don't think that's happening to us, do you? I mean, ever since you and Shae got serious, we almost never talk outside of work. We don't hang out; it's like we're not each other's best friend anymore.

"You've got Shae," she went on hurriedly, not giving focus to facial animation beside her. "You're different with her in the picture now. It bothers me, Marshall; she's affected our relationship, and I'm not comfortable with that. I like Shae well enough, but since you two… We're not the same, you and I. It makes me uneasy."

She cast a fast glance at him, then almost wished she'd remained stoic. Gone was pensive designer, even amused friend; he was looking at her like she'd slapped him, and for a fraction he didn't know he'd committed.

"What? How? Mary, my relationship with Shae has nothing to do with you and I." Though obviously baffled, a trace of concern and desire to calm her flavored his words. Brows raised in entreaty.

"I'm still your friend, your partner; that's never changed." He went on, focused on her exclusively. "I don't spend time with Shae that I normally would be around you. So what's the problem? I've not changed, Mary; _our_ _friendship_ hasn't changed."

Memories flashed of discussion in a Santa Fe church, of an inability to talk to one another. Of underlying tension without localization. He wasn't understanding.

"The problem is…" now she looked at him, defensiveness kicking in, though desperation fleshing out her snappish counter. "It _is_ affecting us. You can't tell me that when I was with Raph that you didn't find yourself frustrated, that you didn't think it altered our relationship. That you didn't think I'd changed, or that it affected you. It did; I could _see it_. It _upset_ you. A lot."

Unease fell over him, and Mary watched Marshall waver. Jaw tensed and lips formed syllabus without breath; eyes briefly sought distraction. He was pulling this response, reluctantly, from an honest place deep within.

"That was different," he finally said, quieter, uncomfortable. He turned back to the wall, readjusting minute creases in the streamer.

"Yeah? How so?" Genuinely disbelieving.

"Because Raphael's place in your life… And mine…"

Something in her gave way. Months of building _'offness'_ that wouldn't abate. Loneliness for her best friend. Emptiness of her life. In true Mary Shannon form, her argument came out as a Category Three and building.

"What? _What?_" she pushed, deciding she was tired of evasiveness and Marshall Diplomacy with carefully chosen phrasing and patronizing understanding. "Admit it, Marshall; you felt like Raph was taking away from our balance, that he was throwing off our dynamic. You can't tell me it didn't bother you, just like it does me with your relationship with Shae. It upsets me just like it did you when I was with Raph!"

"No, Mary; it _isn't_ the same." Pained features now. Wherever he was going with this, he did so most unwillingly.

"What the hell's the difference?" she practically yelled. "You were upset; I'm upset!" Let him excuse all he wanted, she thought; oranges were oranges, after all. Goose and gander and all that good shit.

"The difference being –" he rushed, then broke off abruptly. Expression tightened dramatically, and his breath even held for long seconds. As though passing through a contraction, his facial muscles relaxed slowly upon the exhale. Hands all but ceased their work; eyes opened lethargically, stared unseeingly at the wall. It was not an image of relaxation, but one of… confession. His voice – just below conversation – one of stoic defeat. Empty.

"…that I loved you. That I was… _in_ love with you."

Silence. Ragged breaths. Ages passed in her mind before realizing they were hers. She felt unsteady on the ladder, hands gripping the apex unconsciously. Hazel eyes round and shocked and frightened like a doe's. Brows knit with restrained emotion, and somewhere alongside it pained regret.

He was talking – something about testing the electrical. Shimmying down the ladder and veering at the bottom toward the adjacent wall, back to her, rapidly leaving sight. Echoing distractedly in her recall, the illogically punishing detail of _was_.

**-o-**

He was gone for some time. Pops and snaps could be heard, occasional swear word, and breakers tripped with unerring consistency. Sections of lights strobed in their reflection of live current to dead feed and back.

Mary hoped he wouldn't electrocute himself.

Alone time left her free to finish up the last few wall motifs, her hypersensitive mood the right mood to do so without being asked. She was just in the process of laying out flatware when her partner came in, hair testimony to numerous frustrated finger rakes.

"So what's the verdict?" she ventured, skipping emotional continuation of their last words. Obviously Marshall was in agreement of this course.

"I'll need another surge protector, and a roll of electrical tape if I choose to avoid shorting the building as well as my cardiac rhythm." Irritated, he wiped a hand across a face already shadowed in dark growth. Not even five o'clock, and already he needed another shave.

"Charlie's stopping by in about 20 to drop off the floral centerpiece; he can give you a lift home." Distracted by gathering items no longer necessary, Marshall went on, not awaiting her reply as was his usual method. "Stan and Eleanor'll be here by 6:30. Try to make it by a quarter 'til if you can."

Shouldering a canvas work bag, he twisted toward her, already strides making for the exit. "I'll see you tonight," he said, a jerk of his chin the only readable expression.

Out the door and gone before a chance for her response. Going to play it that way, were they? Pretend he'd not said… Wasn't that how she wanted it, too? Emotional declarations – no, not a declaration. A confession, one begrudgingly admitted. _Let it go_, her inner voice reasoned. _Just walk away from it, as you have for the past several years._

But somehow, this time, she didn't want to.

**-o-**

"I know you don't want to be here, and that I'm not your favorite person," she said, handing Mary a freshly drawn chocolatini, "but I appreciate the fact you came. It was important to Stan. You know, he thinks of you like a daughter. A wayward, hell-spawn daughter, but family nonetheless."

Mary studied the woman beside her at the cash bar, dimmed lighting hiding the lines Eleanor had earned through hardship and laughter. She accepted the drink, caught flippancy before it reared its ugly head, and offered a small smile.

"Stan's a good man. He deserves to be happy."

Eleanor's narrowed eyes referenced the expected zing to her person, but widened when Mary said nothing else. She didn't quite have it in her tonight. And, after all, it was true: Stan _was_ happy – deliriously so – with the battle-mate beside her in stunning red silk and Nancy Sinatra black leathers. Wasn't that the baseline point? Without thought her line of sight slid across the small banquet hall to her table. Shae was pulling Marshall to his feet, her giddiness contagious to her partner as he swept her up into his arms to dancing a lively step despite her ever-increasing pregnancy. He, too, seemed truly happy. It had been a long time since he'd appeared so endeared. Even from the distance Mary knew the softened, bright gaze with which Marshall was viewing his girlfriend. She brought out the boyish charm in him, set him at ease. She wouldn't bite at him for gentlemanly gestures. Wouldn't sneer his deeply romantic notions or scoff at the poetry which sometimes fell from lips merely expressing thoughts of the moment.

"He's quite fond of her." Mary started from musings but didn't turn; changing subjects of view would just admit a guilt she refused.

"I suppose so, if you like –" but caught herself. Honestly, what could she say about Shae? The girl was all right. Nice enough with her southern mannerisms, but no sugar and spice paper doll. Not privileged, not blood-sucking… just plain nice with a streak of unwarranted optimism that rubbed Mary the wrong way. Yet she cheered Marshall, encouraged him, and didn't try to wedge herself between the partners. A good match for him, Mary supposed. And a good friend, above all else, wanted what was best for their best pal.

"Yeah, he is," she corrected, ignoring the piercing gaze she knew was upon her.

"I always wondered if you two would ever give it a go," her company pondered none too subtly. Mary couldn't help the cocked eyebrow and instinctive head swivel, eyeing Eleanor in surprise.

"Oh, yes, Mary. One can only ignore such subtext for so long before it becomes simply blatant self-denial. You two may have occasionally hissed and spit like territorial stray cats, but beneath it all, there was always a connecting thread stronger than any lifeline." She shrugged. "Guess I just always wished for something more – I dunno – cosmically shifting to come from it."

Eleanor's gaze turned to the couple on the floor, the band bouncing with a moderate tempo of swing. Marshall was like a teenager, full of buoyant, light step, leaving Shae stopping every few steps in tearful laughter. Mary had to admit the warmth that spread at his joy.

"Cosmically shifting, eh?" she replied with half attention, her own curiosity back on the couple. "What'd you expect, nuclear warfare?"

"No. I always thought it'd be Karmic and rewarding to see _you _out there, Mary, dancing with him, halfway through a pregnancy on your first wedding anniversary."

"_Excuse me?_" Mary choked, mouth agape with comic face. She'd turned with the sentiment, rapt on her former nemesis with disbelief. But Eleanor wasn't snarky in delivery; serenely watching Marshall and Shae, she appeared contemplative, wistful, even.

"Sure; you two would challenge each other – you already do – but on a whole new, more intimate level. There's a trust there that defies speech, and, honestly, I'd think you two would produce absolutely gorgeous children. But… apparently I was wrong."

Composure gathered, Mary explained with a snort the gaping hole in Eleanor's visions.

"Ms. Compulsively Prim and Proper out there?" Chin jerk to her partner, dismissing all queasiness forming in her stomach. "Yeah, right. I need a _real_ man, Eleanor, not some six-foot-two intellectual version of my kid sister. I need one with the testosterone to remind me he's all male. Marshall's too girly; hell, he probably asks politely before holding hands, and writes up a memorandum of intent before he ventures a chaste little kiss."

Unbidden a heated flush washed over Mary, and she violently shoved the vivid memories away. _He_ _was probably asking for permission and instructions, damn it,_ she grumbled to her traitorous conscience.

This time it was Eleanor who'd turned in astonishment, and Mary gave up the peripheral and met her raised brows with one cocked. "What?" came the demand.

"Mary…" she began. Almost cautiously. "Remind me to have Stan send you for an eye exam, soon." Mary's bafflement took on a scowl and sarcasm.

"And why's that, exactly? You going to tell me he's secretly a sadomasochistic wolf in alter boy robes?"

Eleanor's chin tucked and her own voice imitated that motherly lecturing one haunting Mary's mental torment the last month or so.

"Mary," she began again, this time both chastising and amused at the marshal's miscalculation. "That boy may be a well-mannered gentleman thanks to his mama, but he's also a veritable alpha male if I ever did meet one."

"Marshall?" Mary's turn to question mental health. "God, Eleanor; you've seriously got to stop reading those trashy romance novels."

The Intel Analyst opened her mouth for retort, but was cut off by the arrival of her fiancé, a request for a dance to the Chubby Checker contortionism now enveloping the hundred or so crowd. Her backward glance, however, suggested their discussion was not over.

Downing the chocolatini – wow – Mary wandered over to the buffet. A good seven minutes was wasted gathering her plateful then, seeing little choice, she made her way back to her empty table. She'd come stag, as much for the reason she planned an early escape as that she didn't really have anyone to bring. Finding a cowboy for a fast and hard ride was one thing; acquiring a date for her boss' engagement party was quite another, and Mary didn't need any further complications, much less accompanying questions. Or looks of pity, she added, catching one such from Eleanor just before Stan twirled her.

She was just taking a swig of beer when both couples returned to the table, laughter and commentary breaking inner musings.

Charlie had some running inside joke with his date – Mary hadn't bothered to learn her name – and was so focused on her that it was surprising he was able to locate his seat. Marshall and Shae, however, greeted her as they sat, Marshall pulling out his date's chair and ensuring her comfort before taking his own. Shae dropped out of breath, fanning herself, the flush evident of exertion.

"Oh, Lord," she drawled, self-deprecation pulling a crooked grin. "Anything else swells on my body, I'll be plump enough to serve for Christmas dinner." The younger woman unabashedly removed her flats, rubbing ankles sore according to her grunts and moans. She shifted in her seat and pulled out a free chair with one tight-clad leg to prop her feet.

The three spoke of Stan and Eleanor, of the other guests, of the weather, for God's sake. Another fifteen minutes passed and Mary could take the undercurrent of something no more.

"Well, it's been swell, guys," she announced, rising to gather purse and a last swig, "but I'm tired and have a hot shower and a rerun of Leverage waiting on me."

"Ah, Mary, don't go," Shae pleaded. "It's not even eight, yet. Besides," she added as an afterthought. She peered at the dance floor where Charlie and lady friend had already moved. "You've not danced with Marshall yet." At Mary's immediate clarification that she did not dance, Shae spoke over her, proving the woman wasn't a docile creature after all.

"Please, Mary? I feel awfully bad since Marshall loves to dance, and my energy level just isn't up to it tonight."

"Shae," Marshall intervened, "I'm perfectly happy to stay right here with you." How soft his features went as he reiterated his preference to just be with her. Mary shifted uncomfortably on her feet.

"I know, and you're such a gentleman that you'd lie through your teeth to make me feel better," she continued, a smile expressing this a lovely trait. "But you do love to dance, and you're over here singing the song with a foot tapping beneath the table…" They shared a laugh, as it was completely true. Mary would have joined or commented inappropriately, but the setting was so personal she felt an interloper in the moment.

Without another word she slipped around them, intent for the door. A hand caught hers three strides in, tugging her about.

"Hey." He smiled that boyish grin that used to indicate a multitude of things. These days she couldn't read it for all the tea in China.

"Hey." Everything else escaped her.

"Ms. Shannon," he said, flamboyantly executing a bow in his charcoal suit and black button-down, "would you do me the honor of a dance? My girlfriend," he added, gesturing back to Shae who waved that pageant flutter in return, "would like me to leave the table long enough so her ears can recuperate from my singing." Amusement encompassed his entire demeanor, and Mary hadn't the heart to change it.

"Sure," her sighed answer tumbled out. "But the first toe-stepping-on you do, buddy, will be the last after I shoot yours off. Got it?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Twinkle Toes," he quipped, and as she pulled her purse strap cross body – far too aware the attention it brought to her low-cut V-neck peasant top – he tugged her to the middle of the dance floor.

Shae was right; Marshall loved to dance, and apparently loved this song. He was exaggeratingly mouthing the words to her in crooner fashion. She relaxed, unable to keep from grinning in repressed laughter at his antics.

It was a lively, bluesy rendition of the Killer Jerry Lee's "I'm Still Jealous of You." As they stepped in a slower but lively jitterbug, Mary could see why Shae had been so breathless – breathless with laughter, that is. It was invigorating, to say the least, and Marshall's steps were smooth and coordinated, despite his comic suggestions otherwise. And in spite of herself, Mary found herself watching him with infectious humor, appreciating the serenade as he stared intently upon her. His own expressions varied with the lyrics, from raised brows to pursed lips to every overly dramatic face she'd ever seen on any lead vocalist in concert.

Though Marshall never misstep in foot or mood, somewhere halfway through the song she began to really take notice the words. A part of her she'd never understand or reconcile with demanded its short-lived fantasy, and truly listened to the tale of long-standing adoration and ever-present sense of jealousy over a woman he'd loved for such a very, very long time. And he was singing it to her. Word for word, with a gaze that could mesmerize even in its farce… if she'd just let it…

"…well you're a gooooood lookin' woman…"

… and just allow it…

"…Lord, you can tempt any man…"

… to swallow her heart whole…

"… and that's why I feel the way I do…"

… and the world didn't exist…

"…it's just that I've loved you, for such a loooong time…"

... just for those few minutes…

"… honey, I'm still jealous of youuuu…"

And Mary forgot her laughter; merriment faded away.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"**I'm Still Jealous of You" – Lyrics by J. Foster and B. Rice**


	14. Ch 14: Clarifications by Rote

**Disclaimer****: **Just borrowing.

**Author's Note:** Yea! for a new season of _In Plain Sight_ – loved episode 3 last Sunday! Not too keen on Abby (seriously? That perky is attractive to Marshall?), but overall goodness of our duo back in action. Oh, the parallels.

Sorry for the long wait; work and adventures have taken much of my time. Also, as the plot thickens a bit more in other areas, I had to detangle my mental threads a bit. Hope you're hanging on sanely, and thanks for staying with me.

And for those fearing the worst… I promise you, there _will _be a happy M&M ending, and the shift into such will be – I whole-heartedly believe – a totally _feasible_ one. Been worked out from the beginning; just bear with me.

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts! (Less than one-sixth of you who Alert on this story actually review; bit disconcerting, really.)

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 14: Clarifications by Rote**

"Cutting in! Groom's choice."

Mary was obviously startled from her mesmerisation, half aware when her hands were transferred to another's. It was several moments before her face inched downward to meet his, a moment before her feet found the slightly faster pace. She blinked several times, apparently clearing her mind.

"Glad you were able to make it, Inspector." Stan smiled affectionately, drawing Mary's attention – and eyes – back to him. They had drowsily been following Marshall as Eleanor led him in a lively two-step back across the floor. "Means a lot to me."

Murmured generalized acceptance and response came distractedly from her lips, and Stan studied her, worried, but curious. When Eleanor had nodded toward Mary and Marshall a minute before, Stan had thought nothing of his inspectors sharing an upbeat dance. Not until nudging from El and closer inspection pointed out that over the course of roughly 31 seconds, Mary's amusement had faded, her gaze wholly upon Marshall, engaged. Marshall, for his part, had still been serenading as he'd done all night, but even as the party hosts watched, the silly exaggerations had given way to earnest inconspicuousness. Their movements had trailed, their attentions – far too enveloped with the other. Something had to be done… right then.

By mutual consent he and El had maneuvered nearby, taking bubbly action by establishing the rights of the hosts of honor and split the two while there was nothing to repair later.

"Not like I had a choice," she finally managed, and Stan observed with no small amount of appreciation the effort Mary was bestowing as she forced an air of smart-mouthed normalcy. She'd found her mental footing. "Fred Astaire over there wasn't going to take 'no' for answer. And perhaps the reiteration of Suck-Up-to-the-Boss-for-Brownie-Points might have held some sway, too."

Steps slowed and altered, catching a different rhythm as the tune changed to a fun, gritty R&B Francine Reed piece. Mary's consideration was at least on him now, and wasn't that the purpose? Distraction was one thing; Stan also saw this moment as opportunity. Things to be said. More importantly, things to be learned. Afraid of the answers drifting about in the ether, the Chief Inspector also realized knowledge was power; forewarned was forearmed.

He held his tongue, weighing an opening.

"You buy into that?" she suddenly asked, and Stan had to shake his head, puzzled.

"And into what existentialism theory am I being questioned to have purchased?" Patent Stan Expectant Stare. Mary skewered a face.

"That 'One Monkey Don't Stop No Show,'" she referenced with a smirk, the song touting that particular sage wisdom.

Merely a quirk of the corner of his mouth and she returned to looking about her, seeking mayhap some distraction of her own. Stan acquiesced her need, granting a full chorus before delving into what he knew he had to know.

"Mary…" He paused until her focus was on him, his steps keeping time, her follow granted without resistance. "There's nothing going on I should, um, know about…?" It was a leading question, one hinting at preference for a negative answer. Hers was negative with a bullet.

"Wha-what? No. No!" she denied a second time, repulsed expression, head shake. "Absolutely not." Eyes flicked nervously about. No further elaboration, and Stan clarified his point.

"Look, Inspector… I don't need to know what – if anything – is… developing. I don't _want_ to know," he added, forestalling her parted lips in protest. "But Mary…" Here he hesitated, seeking just the exact words. Words that were clear, said more than the surface.

"Mary, you'd best figure it out real quickly. Know what cards are in play, what you've still got in hand. Things are set in motion… If you're thinking of doing something… Just don't wait until things get too far – in either case – and _someone_ gets hurt."

At first she just stared at him, confused. Then a moment later Stan caught the click in her mind, her facial expression relaxing in numbing awareness. Neither spoke for the remainder of the song. Or the next.

**-o-**

"Marshall," Eleanor toyed, giving her former coworker a coy grin to match his own. "You always did know how to sweep a girl off her feet." He danced her backwards a few steps, turned with flourish, shallow dip.

"Why thank you, Miss Eleanor." Boyish grin, a lock of hair falling down near his eye. The appearance was one of schoolboy charm in a very grown man's physique. Eleanor's wry look of amusement expressed just how charming she found him this evening. She decided to skirt the issue, come from a blind corner.

"You've sure swept Shae off her feet," she continued, a smirk and glance back to the younger woman, alternately watching the band and her boyfriend while chatting on her phone. He chuckled.

"Yeah… she's really feeling that added weight, now," he added, expression verging on concern and sympathy. "I should get back to her."

A preemptive grasp to his arm checked the move. "Just finish out the dance; she's probably enjoying the view." Both smiled. Marshall added a touch more flair, allowing himself an ease of fun missing for quite some time as he whirled her around. Eleanor granted another minute to pass before striking.

"She's a sweet thing, your girl. Seems real smart, warm, generous…"

A look of pride swept his face. "All those traits and more…" His attention followed to the focal point of his life these past many weeks. Affection pulled at the corners of his lips.

"She's a real dear, Marshall." Pause as she studied him, then found her point. "I just hope she's not real observant," she pondered, seemingly innocently. "Not sure she'd be quite so generous if she saw what was happening between you and Mary just a moment ago."

Had she not been preparing for it, Eleanor would have missed the misstep, the bodily wince as Marshall caught her words. He looked away.

Not allowing time for him to regroup, she pressed on. "Something that's been going on for some time, I'm sure." When he made no response, she went for the kill. "What _**is**_ going on between you and Mary, Marshall? You're obviously still in love with her –"

That caught him directly, and his face blanched as his head jerked back toward her. Eleanor couldn't help the mixture of feelings: pride in being spot on in her beliefs; tickled at catching him so perfectly unaware; pangs of sorrow at the loss she saw in his eyes.

He looked away again quickly, humor fading to furrowed brow and gaze seeking anywhere but her. Eleanor, like a good mother, pushed. Now they were getting somewhere. Now there was confession, if only to himself.

"Please, Eleanor." His voice was strained; still would not look at her. "You know I'm quite fond of you, but… please… no. Please don't ask me that."

It was all the answer she needed.

**-o-0-o-**

"Basket of Garcia's sopapillas if you can correctly identify the Witness of the Moment who decided to spend the last few hours as a guest of Albuquerque's finest… complete with high definition CCT footage of Assault 1st."

Mary groaned, dropping onto the couch arm still wrapped in naught but her towel. Her after-workout shower still evident in dripping hair, she ignored her physical state in light of this intrusion to her mental one.

"Goddamn it, Marshall," she sulked into her phone, "it'd better be the Pope for interrupting the last of my weekend." No mood outside of the 'Annoyed' realm was available for consultation; she hoped her partner would take the hint and cease all cheeriness.

"_Ennnt_; wrong answer," he chimed, still ridiculously chipper for – what time was it anyway? – 9:32 in the morning. On a Sunday. Her day off. Her _one_ day off.

"Guess again?" he queried, and Mary wondered about his glee. There had to be an amusing (or so _not_) twist to this. Giving herself a moment of consideration…

"Saundra 'Snow White'-ington," she offered, quipping the nickname they'd given a 22-year-old tree-hugging pacifist Mary had brought in nine weeks earlier. The woman was meek as a mouse and about as innocent as the fairy tale mother hen.

"Strike two for the lovely lady. Shall we go for three?"

"Only if the umpire wants his balls batted into grounders."

"_Ohhh_… But if it gets you to Home Plate…" he teased lowly, and Mary smirked in spite of herself. "Meet me down here at PD in twenty. You're gonna want see this."

"Fine," she growled, back to the business at hand. "Better be worth my while, though."

"There's a better-than-average chance you'll get to verbally abuse someone." He dangled words like carrots. "Even money on apprehension with deadly force."

"Be there in twelve."

**-o-**

Mary watched the skewed images play mutely across the screen. Nature of the security video left the footage jerky and slightly fast, reminiscent of old, silent films from the 20's. Regardless, clarity was enough to easily identify both men below.

"That's the guy," she confirmed, taking in the almost-transaction. Subject One was about to discreetly hand over what looked to be a flat leather case, just as Subject Two had pulled out a cautious wrap of bills from his pocket. That would be about the time Unknown Subject Three came abruptly into the picture frame from the lower bottom, punches flaying upon Subject Two. Subject One, on the safer side, re-pocketed the item and fled.

"Connie Bangles," Bobby said, rewinding several seconds back and freezing the shot. "Street rep for the best counterfeit IDs in central New Mexico. Did some time back in the late 90's, been just under the radar ever since." He looked up at the marshals. "Any idea what business he's got with your guy?"

Mary opened her mouth for her usual denial by ignorance, but Marshall answered first.

"None, which is why we appreciate your help in this matter, Bobby. Your _generous_ help," he added, cutting a look to Mary. She rolled her eyes but said nothing.

Bobby's sigh was exaggerated but without offense, and he collected his jacket and coffee and moved toward the door. There he stopped with a look at both federal officials.

"You've got the room for fifteen; no cameras, no viewing. After that…"

"Thanks, Bobby," Marshall answered, already shutting off the equipment. Mary nodded her thanks, unspoken but understood. Mimicking her gesture, the detective turned and slipped out of the room.

"So…" she began once they were alone. "Your witness; how you wanna play it?"

Marshall smiled grimly, caught her gaze.

"Like a Grand Waltz."

"Huh?"

He quirked a wry grin this time. "Lively, upbeat, and too quick for him to predict the change in tune."

**-o-**

"I told you: me and Paulo, we have some bad blood between us. That's all."

"And _who's_ Paulo, again?" Mary asked brusquely, pinning him with a stare.

"Just a drinkin' buddy, like I said."

"And your drinking buddy came upon you with fists a-flying for what purpose, exactly?" Marshall asked.

"I _told_ you… we got a little shit-faced the other night, had some words. He was sober this morning, pissed off… Hey, I already told that cop all this. Just a misunderstanding between friends."

"Jackie," Marshall continued, his words coming faster now. He leaned across the table on fingertips, "Considering your little 'friend' there is under suspicion for some underhanded race dealings, I'd be rather hesitant were I you in the acknowledgement of such an individual as a so-called intimate. The New Mexico Racing Commission is about to become highly interested in Paulo and by association, any of his acquaintances, taking special notice of them and their backgrounds."

"Which as a matter of criminal investigation, makes it a violation of your MOU," Mary added, arms crossed as she leaned back in her chair.

"Not to mention endangers your cover –"

"Which compromises your place in the program –"

"And forces us to consider your security breached and –"

"Thus instigating protocol which demands a new identity, new location…" Here Mary paused with a long, knowing look to Marshall, who returned the silent suggestion with speculative agreement and raised brow.

"Unless," she continued, now slowing her words with precision and seemingly piecing of thoughts. "Unless that was your intent all along. You wanted to relocate again, don a new persona –"

"_What?_" Jackie intervened, jumping to attention and looking anxiously from Mary to Marshall for assistance. Marshall, however, followed Mary's road.

"This time out of the government's sight and grasp. Ingenious, really; have DOJ toss you out for infractions, and you're already prepared with a new identity and life the moment your paperwork clears." Marshall ignored Jackie's now frantic denials and questions, speaking over them to Mary. "Explains why he's risking everything to meet up with a known felon to acquire fake credentials."

Jackie's loud protests suddenly ceased. The marshals both renewed their attention on their witness, perceptive in expression but silent. He shifted uneasily, then played the ignorance card for forty-five seconds before Mary hit Play on the laptop, revealing the pre-fight footage.

"Look, I don't know anything about any fake IDs. Con was making good on a bet. I know that kind of gambling's not appreciated by you guys; that's why I didn't say anything before." Mary's speculative glare prompted him further.

"That's just his wallet; he was gonna gimme the money when Paulo came by, went all ape-shit on me. Con don't like to get in the middle of that, afraid someone'll rob him, so he split."

Mary snorted. "That's a damn small wallet. Who's it belong to, Mickey Mouse?" She cut a look to Marshall. "Does Mickey even have pockets? Where's he keep his wallet?"

Marshall shrugged knowingly. "He just gives it Minnie to hold onto in her stylish clutch like a good little boyfriend."

"Already donned _that_ collar and leash, have you?" Marshall's baleful look only sped her on. "Handing over the keys to the money vault… at least there's hope for you yet." Rolled eyes met her sassy smirk.

"And the fact that you know and correctly use the term _clutch_ without it involving manual shifting transmission worries me, Marshall."

It was his turn to smirk. "You're just jealous I know fashion better than you."

"Jesus, take me now," she murmured before turning back to Jackie. They'd thoroughly thrown him… and his concentration.

"So explain, Jackie, and use small, clear words. I'm tired of fucking around with you on my day off; not in the mood for pretty pictures with poetic connotations." She caught Marshall's grin of approval and appeared to suppress a matching response.

**-o-**

Already the temperature was approaching 92 as they brooked the doors, escaping the confines of ABQ PD. Marshall was pensive, molding and shaping the information from the past two hours. Sparing a view of his partner, he drew a deep breath.

"Come on, I'll buy you lunch. We need to confab."

"Seriously, Marshall; who says _confab_ anymore? Who are you, Austin Powers?" Regardless her snark, she followed him to his truck without answer. "Leave the 70's to its throes of death, why don'tcha?"

He cut her a withering look and silently stood sentinel, truck door open for her alight. She climbed in and he shut the door, retreating around the front. Once situated behind the wheel, he settled into traffic, the quiet between them easy. It gave him time to surreptitiously study the blonde enigma beside him, reminiscing to the night before.

Everything had been fine, enjoyable. He'd left behind the confession of earlier, considered it cathartic and closure. Shae had reminded him just how good it could be. An evening out with friends, good friends, complete in comfort, affection… silliness. A level of relaxation and affection he'd lost somewhere along the way. She had made him feel the protector, the lover, the center of her thoughts. In turn he had relished her attention, teasing her with playful moves on the dance floor. She saw him as a man, her confidence in him whole, solid. How long had it been he'd felt so cherished?

Marshall shook his head, dissuading images from taking root. Concern had not been for how Shae had reminded him of the pleasure life could be; concern had instead lain in the last moments of a dance danced simply to please his girlfriend and celebrate with his best friend. Light-hearted, amusing… Marshall could recall all too vividly the shift of atmosphere around them as he'd mimicked the chorus. Words too carbon the truth that he faltered in delivery.

And Mary – Mary had not laughed or dramatized his antics or verbal stumbles at that point. She had instead looked at him. Simply looked at him, as though seeing him after many years' absence. As though he'd changed – and perhaps he had, he considered. In the months since his decision to walk away from hopeless dreams and empty fantasies, he'd _had_ to change. And Shae had been such a part of that, a woman for whom he was coming to feel so many things. Yet the seriousness of his partner's expression as he had held her affectionately, sways muted to mere shifts of weight, had left him puzzled… unsettled… afraid.

Had he screwed everything up by his admittance? Had he nicked a thread in their tapestry of friendship, and in that moment could start to see its unravel? He wasn't the only one to have noticed; Eleanor had seen the fraying even from afar, and if they couldn't mend it soon, Marshall was afraid his moment of Truth Setting Him Free would be the death knell for their partnership. Mary had for years intentionally shied away from Marshall's previous attempts at admitting his feelings for her; perhaps he should have taken the hint. She didn't want to know because she didn't want it to be true, didn't want it to ruin their friendship. Even now, with it being a matter of the past, she obviously still didn't want to know. And yet, he'd been hell bent and determined in that one moment of emotion to confess, to be free.

Had his emancipation brought with it a severing of another kind?

"Let me get it."

Marshall broke from his musings with a start. "What?" he asked, momentarily confused as to if he'd missed her talking.

"Lunch," she responded matter-of-factly, watching the foot traffic as they slowed at an intersection. Sunday shoppers and crowds dismissing from church flowed through the crosswalks and before storefronts. "A good friend should do that sometimes, you know; not always expect the other to pick up the tab."

Moments of processing her speech and Marshall answered cautiously, uneasy. "Mary… you don't have to _try_ to be a friend by buying lunch." Even as the next words fell from his mouth, he knew them for what they were, their reflection of her recent actions. Knew them to be true. "You don't have to wash my truck or chat with my girlfriend to _try_ to be my friend; you've always _been_ my friend, Mare. My best friend."

She didn't turn toward him, nor speak. Her right shoulder must have held some fascinating visual, for she wouldn't budge from peering over it. Taut lines about her jaw suggested the tug and worry of her bottom lip.

"True, it _is_ nice for you to occasionally be aware outside your own dramas, as thick as they have often been. Just like with a couple who've been married for years – it's nice to hear ever so often that you're loved. Or in our case," he quickly corrected, afraid of flashbacks, "that you're appreciated.

"Cliché though it may sound, it truly is the little things that speak so loudly. You know… I really liked that you'd gone to all that trouble just to find out what my favorite coffee flavor was when I came back from Florida. That kind of thing…" He shrugged, feeling she'd sense it. "Just a gentle reminder that you care enough to take note. That I matter enough for you to bother. Speaks volumes."

Tight swallow and still facing away, Marshall felt the need to lighten the moment before Mary struck out in self-preservation.

"Of course, the occasional _big thing_ is nice, too, so if you're ever feeling friendly or guilty enough, I could always be persuaded to dine at the St. James Tearoom…"

That elicited a snort, her voice tight with emotion but steady. "In your richest culinary fantasies, Bub."

"Why waste a good fantasy on food, Mare, when there're so many other delights to be orally sampled?"

Her soft gasp only made him chuckle.

**-o-0-o-**

Pink.

Rosy Pink. Pepto Pink. Hot Pink. Pale Pink. Pink Paisley.

No. No, no, no. She was _not_ buying pink.

With a marked growl of annoyance, Mary shoved aside the offending shades and fled the scene to another set of racks offered by the opposite store wall. Cutsie and flaunting; holiday and miniature adult. Sports- and hobby-based themes. She forcibly dismissed any residual flutters of déjà vu whilst flicking through onesies of all designs and patterns. Each frilly outfit seemed more ridiculous than the last, and though she knew not what she sought, she knew what it _wasn't_.

Mary's mind drifted as plastic hangers screeched against metal rods. Safety zone lay in discussions at lunch, and it was to one particular topic she now fled.

_Marshall had started in on his grilled chicken wrap, chewing thoughtfully as his gaze had fluttered somewhere beyond them. Mary recalled how the cool breeze had ruffled his hair, playfully tugging tendrils from their gelled attention. He was pensive, pondering._

_ "He's protecting someone," he finally said, focus settling on her. Had she really never noticed how direct his gaze could be, how invasive? Her expression must have told something of her wayward thoughts, because he backed up, clarified._

_ "Jackie. He's protecting someone. I don't think that ID was for him. Why risk everything, dealing with a man who could get you kicked out of the program, or possibly draw your enemies to you by word of mouth?" Again he seemed to fall back into a memory before reemerging with some dusting of solidification. "To protect someone. Someone you care about more than yourself."_

_ "Corinne," she stated simply, following his logic._

_ "Precisely."_

Headway had been limited, but by meal's end vague images were forming from which a greater picture might be seen. They would each work on it, starting with Marshall's covert search for a background on Jackie's lady friend. That much decided, Mary had picked up her car and ventured on, taking the enforced outing as opportunity to run an errand. She and Shae had a lunch date for Wednesday, and nagging deep down was Mary's instinctual indulgence to do something against her very nature: shop for a gift.

It wasn't for Shae, per se; it was for her baby. Which in reality made the compulsion even more absurd. But Mary was afraid to examine the anomaly too closely, fear on the fringes of consideration of what effect her dreams lately had had on said need. Nor did she wish to consider too thoroughly what impact the fact that Marshall looked to become that baby's father-figure… possibly by marriage at some point.

If that were the case, then yes, she could explain away this turn of tide in tidings of joy. After all, though she far too often forgot to tell him, she did appreciate Marshall – he was her best friend in the whole world – and she wanted to be involved in his life outside of her. She loved him; he was family by choice. Their relationship was one of understanding and acceptance, an intimate connection built upon trust and familiarity. She had realized with his absence in Florida just how much she relied on his presence in her life.

She'd missed him more than she had even missed her father, and that realization had scared the shit out of her. Eleanor had intimated another level of attachment that Mary simply could not accept, could not envision. Mary was _not_ 'in love' with Marshall – she couldn't be. She wasn't even sure she _believed_ in being in love, but even were it a state Mary Shannon could one day find herself, she was positive it had to also involve a physical attraction – pure desire – for one's object of affection.

And that's where Mary drew the line regarding her partner: she did not lust after Marshall. He was good-looking enough, she admitted. But Mary was a strong, vivacious woman, and both needed and demanded a very masculine, alpha male equal to meet her parry for thrust. A certain undertone of fight for dominance, to stand up to her dictation. Marshall, for all the good man he was, simply did not make the woman inside her quiver.

And last night? She refused to dwell too closely on last night. Queer feelings had darted through her in those fantastical moments when she swore the band had quieted and the crowd of well-wishers had taken several steps away from them. When heat had radiated from Marshall as though feverish; when she had either shrunk in stature or he had grown, eclipsing her normally impressive aura.

Shaking hypnotic memory aside, Mary took in the shelf before her. She'd drifted along two racks and three shelves during her musings, and a soft smile snagged at her lips now as she let her fingers contour the set displayed. Warmth flooded from somewhere deep within, a chuckle rising mixed with endearment. _Perfect_, she thought.

Pulling for closer inspection, Mary could not forestall the betraying scenarios which darted through her mind's eye as she studied the tiny leather Ropers. Marshall's large, protective hands encompassing, caressing his child in utero… whispering terms of utter contentment… singing softly to a descended belly… gentle rubbing to settle restless, kicking feet…

"_Then maybe we should just get her a pair of cowboy boots and be done with it."_

The words of her dream-self echoed in her mind, and Mary fumbled to quickly replace the miniature boots in an abrupt change of plans. She couldn't; couldn't do it. Blinking rapidly, she escaped her self-created nightmare with the speed of an Olympic sprinter, snatching up the Georgia Tech sleeper on her way.


	15. Ch 15: Contemplations

**Disclaimer****: **Alas, not mine.

**Author's Note:** Damn long chapter. Am hoping it's worth both the wait and, perhaps, a review?

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts!

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 15: Contemplations**

The Chat Noir cat bedeviled her with piercing ochre eyes, ears laid flat to the side in disdain. His ruffed fur bristled in a tousled, beleaguered manner, very much how she herself felt at the moment.

Shae turned from the print and gazed lovingly down at the figure draped upon the faux ultra suede couch. Stripped of his button down, one bare arm lay low across his brow, the other half upon lean abdominal muscles, defined through the thin cotton undershirt. She smiled. He was beautiful in repose, a level of peace he never quite reached in waking hours. Law enforcement as a career was bound to do that, she supposed, but even so Marshall was generally a happy man, prone to cheeky grins and educational hodge-podge than anger, resentment.

She rubbed her expanding belly thoughtfully. Marshall had also been prone to kindness and acceptance, welcoming even this impending lifelong commitment with an open mind. Lately, it had been with open arms as well.

They'd had plans for tonight; plans that had included romantic setting, home cooked dinner by candlelight, strains of soft blues. Perhaps… perhaps more intimate endeavors. Shae shivered. Unintentional acceleration of her heartbeat and breathing were mere tips to the iceberg of anticipation at the thought. They'd been dancing around the subject far too long, increasingly so these past couple of days. Why the sudden leap she didn't know, but suspected it to be some sort of decision he'd come to. Perhaps he'd finally realized her desire for him wasn't wholly hormones – they were just enhancing it.

Whatever the catalyst, had she not been dead on her feet last night from the party, Shae was positive that boundary line would have finally, fully been crossed. And she had no doubts from his reactions that he had wanted her with blatant desire. Dear Lord, she could close her eyes now and _feel_ the very essence of his touches last night…

Sweet kisses on the couch had progressed rapidly, an almost possessed passion in Marshall lying just beneath the surface. Hands always so gentle still were, but holding sway just in the wings of this play was a need Shae had intently felt then – could feel even now. Her gentlemanly boyfriend was just that: gentlemanly. Any concerns she had harbored that perhaps the falling shoe with this man was that he lacked sexual interest or drive all vanished last night. She had felt his restrained need so bold and evident; he lacked nothing, much less desire.

When her obvious exhaustion had finally showed through her own exploration of hands, Marshall had called a stop. Eyes that smoldered were mostly hidden behind redirected glances, heavy lids. He had told her it was fine, that he was fine, that they would find their moment in due time. Don't worry about it. There's no rush. All the time in the world. Cold showers weren't… necessary. She'd laughed at the last, the underlying truth to his statement satisfying: a cold shower might not be necessary, but it would certainly be ever helpful.

Instead he'd held her next to him, stretched out on the couch watching television until she'd fallen asleep. Once more she'd awoken to find herself snug quite soundly in his bed, he himself elsewhere. It had been before dawn this morning, his voice drifting from the direction of his kitchen. A phone call, him conversing with someone unknown, requesting they hold off on questioning, thanking them for the heads' up, that he'd be right there. He'd left a note on the kitchen island explaining duty called.

Marshall had called a couple times throughout the day, checking on her, making plans for dinner. She was cooking in his kitchen, enjoying the flush of spry comfort she found being left in his home, his touches everywhere about her. Irish stew, freshly baked bread, tiramisu for dessert… Yet he had not returned home until after six. She had claimed needing a bit more time to finish preparations, and in those minutes he had settled on the couch to catch the local news. Planning for a quick shower before dinner, the shirt was gone, boots pulled. By the time the seven-day forecast had appeared and the meal ready to serve, he was out for the count.

Shae couldn't bear to wake him, and instead had wrapped everything for storage in the fridge. And now, at a quarter after seven, found herself smiling indulgently at this beautiful man before her. A man she could now see coming home to every evening, caring for, sharing her body with, her life with. Her future.

Yes; Shae was finally coming to admit even to herself that she was falling in love with Marshall. And for once, she believed she had made the right choice. Eddie was young, impetuous, daring… irresponsible, a bit selfish, unworldly. He had so much growing up to do, and Shae was beyond the absolute, utter need for that. A baby due in four months, a person whose very existence was hers to ensure. Eddie had missed that train, that acceptance of role, of taking ownership. He wanted his freedom and damned anything that got in the way; his wants were all that mattered.

Marshall, however… Marshall was older, protective, careful… fun, intelligent, thirsty for knowledge and experiences. Strong enough to take on the demons of the world, shield her when she couldn't handle them, comfort her when she had no choice. He made her laugh and showed her the world from different views. She could count on him, trust him. His nature was above the recklessness Eddie embraced as a second skin, his musician's attitude full of smoky clubs and free-flowing brew, of wild after-parties and thirst for experiences of another kind. Marshall was steady, trustworthy, loving. Reliable.

This lawman before her, he was the real deal, and come hell or high water, she wasn't making the same sort of mistake again. She'd found a priceless Da Vinci at a flea market, hidden beneath a tin star badge and Encyclopedia Britannica. She had a feeling there was a chapter included dedicated to the _Kama Sutra_.

Confiscating a spare blanket from the guest bedroom beside the laundry, Shae carefully drew it along the long, fit body. She tucked him in, a chaste, soft kiss goodnight on his forehead before she turned to leave for home.

And next weekend when her paper was completed and her exam sat, she aimed to leisurely peruse that particular Volume K-L and find out just what education lay between the covers.

**-o-0-o-**

"I've a number of suspicions, each one as likely as the last."

Marshall's commentary continued as he glanced through the open case file on the conference room table. Mary considered him, taking in the slight haggardness on the edges of his face. Weary, tired, worn… It was the look of a man with something on his mind, something keeping him awake at night. Monday was the first of vague inattentiveness, distraction. Tuesday gave notion of heavy musings weighing on his mind. But today – today Mary could see the facilitation of some internal battle, and it was showing spectacularly.

Or maybe that was her. She took notice because she was looking far too closely at him these days. Since Saturday night, Mary found herself with a preoccupation of studying Marshall, seeking out the most minute signs of what he was thinking, feeling. She'd been trying so hard to become a better friend, to reach that level he had of knowing her moods, that she had inadvertently discovered a whole plethora of information speaking clearly from peering eyes, twitch of lips, clench of jaw, tilt of head. Marshall could carry on an entire conversation with just facial expressions.

And recently that discussion was contradicting his verbose assurances.

Several months before there had been a sudden shift Marshall's mood, lasting weeks. He'd lost some of his innate buoyancy, cheerfulness. Closer to a façade, laughter that didn't _quite_ meet his eyes. Those eyes had become sad, haunted, empty. Full of regret for… for what, she didn't know.

Yes, she had noticed. Had asked on several occasions if all was well with him, his reply always some animated form of reassurance. Those words, she now realized, had not matched the face memory recollected for her. At the time his verbal cues had held sway aplenty for her. Her newfound talent, however, spoke otherwise, alerted her to the lie in his speech –then, now – the dichotomy he presented the world.

Why was he lying? What was so goddamned serious that left him distracted? What could he possibly not share with her, to talk it out?

And what else had she missed before she'd begun learning how to read him?

"What's your gut say?" Stan was talking now. Mary realized belatedly she'd missed half of what Marshall had said, and adjusted in irritation to lean across the conference table. Exaggerated face, sigh and rolling eyes. Her partner ignored her, answered their chief instead.

"Same heat, different climate."

Stan waited patiently, cocked eyebrow and direct stare punctuating his wish for elaboration. Mary's patience – not so much. Marshall continued.

"When I was in Florida, weak and vulnerable Dougie Stanton was unequivocally terrified of the people he was turning against, and for good reason. Yet he gave up the protection of a safe house, struck out on his own amidst sadistic, vicious killers hunting him, in order to protect a friend."

"So he's protecting this girl you told me about –" Stan quickly glanced at his notes, "Corinne. But if so, why? He's taking a huge chance, Marshall; not only with his DOJ deal, but his own personal safety. Known identity counterfeiter is just asking for someone to cash in on an underground reward." Stan looked thoughtful. "Jackie has to know that."

Marshall further discussed his contemplations on the matter, and Mary found herself drifting again, eyes focusing on the movements of his lips, his mouth a center of fascination. This bit of flesh so firm and seemingly soft could elicit so very many emotions – through visual cues, through touch, through words… deceptive words.

"He's just another goddamn man who can't think past his nutsack," she snapped, slamming palms flat to the table and bouncing up, pacing like a caged animal. This irritation with Marshall made little sense, but Mary couldn't argue gut feeling with logic.

"Little too much Tori Amos this morning, Mary?" Stan's quip was delivered dry, a quiver to his lips.

Marshall barked a laugh. "I'd have gone with Alanis Morissette, maybe Melissa Ferrick," he mused amusedly.

"Really?" Stan pondered, appearing to give a moment's thought to his senior deputy marshal. "You think post-_Jagged Little Pill_ has stronger anti-masculine overtones than _Little Earthquakes_? Excluding _You Oughtta Know_, of course."

"In _Little Earthquakes_, Tori's only real ball-basher is –"

"Oh, Jesus, boys; cut the shit out," she complained, exasperated. The men merely chuckled and started gathering their paperwork.

"Let me know what falls from the tree shaking today," Stan was saying as he tucked his pen inside his suit jacket. "Oh, and don't forget, Marshall; you got day range Tuesday. Quals on both issued sidearms, shotgun, M-14… any additionals you want if you've time."

Marshall acknowledged with nod, "Got it, Chief," and disappeared out of the conference room, Stan intent on following when Mary tugged his sleeve.

"Got a second, Stan?" she asked, mood shifted to pensive.

"Make it quick, Inspector; I've got Delia and Preston's case reviews in –" he checked his watch –  
"six minutes."

She bit her lower lip, cast a glance out to her partner's desk, then plunged in. "It's about Marshall…"

**-o-0-o-**

"So… how're we gonna play this?"

She was looking to her right, eyes fixated behind Aviators on the oval track now dotted with thoroughbreds heading either direction in their late morning workouts. Marshall noted the hollow ring to her voice, waiting another few paces along the rail before answering.

"Brief impersonation of an HBPA official, checking on the paperwork for Corinne Estes, employee of one Paulo Faccini, trainer." When she said nothing, he elaborated. "HBPA is an organization for –"

"Horseman's Benevolent Protection Association," Mary interrupted, still focused on the equine activities. There was a bristling beneath her words. "Yeah, yeah, I know what it is." Though snippish, it was obvious it wasn't pointed at him. He waited. Patience – and twenty feet of loamy terrain – won out.

"I spent a little time around race tracks," she said softly, casting a quick identifying glance toward him them finding the outer rail of interest. "Once I hit college, I practically minored in handicapping. Even did a little hot walking during the summers…" Long pause… even softer now.

"Figured Daddy couldn't give up the ponies. Always looking for that next sure thing, that next big payoff… Apparently he could just as easily walk away from them, too."

Pain of constriction hit his heart, an empathy deep. He understood far too well longing for something, for someone, that would never appear. Add to that the fact every man since then had failed her…

"He missed out on the best sure thing of his life," he said with quiet conviction. Her lips twitched, and Marshall smiled, allowing himself a quick palm rub to her back before falling back into purposeful strides. Mary didn't take comfort well, but the touch spoke volumes and he knew she understood.

"Thanks." Beneath her breath, but he heard. Even better, he caught her self-conscious grin, short-lived though it was. It was enough.

Barn 42 was a flurry of activity dying down, and after courteous inquiries, Marshall and Mary were introduced succinctly to Paulo Faccini. The Bronx transplant reached Marshall's shoulders, but must have outweighed him by twenty pounds of unhealthy living. Leathered skin and close cropped steel hair bespoke a distasteful thuggish-ness of which Marshall instantly leery. He felt bare with his side piece locked in the truck. Quick glance at Mary made him glad he'd insisted she carry a clipboard and pen; it gave her something to occupy hands constantly patting for weapon that wasn't there.

Initially he'd been worried about someone recognizing her as the lady with the badge from the previous week when she'd come to Corinne's rescue, though she'd only flashed a security guard with threats of intricate legal woes if he'd breathed a word. So far, it appeared they'd pass with their ruse.

"Thanks for meeting with us," Marshall offered, eyes flittering about to take in the hot walker now stopped with his charge a few feet away, blatantly listening.

Paulo made a non-committal grunt, his antsy nature giving way to irritation at the pause in his routine.

"I'm Marshall, this is Mary; we're here with the HBPA, following up on some paperwork for some of the horsemen. Our office indicates stable employee Corinne Estes works for you. In order to finish up some insurance and health benefits, I need to get some additional information. But I understand it's her day off, so…"

The man's eyes narrowed, head canted. Marshall thought he more resembled the bulldog Jackie was named after than his witness. "And you'd like me to do what about it?" Gruff, antagonistic.

"Well, you can start by –"

But Marshall cut Mary off with a hand to her arm, overriding the impending viciousness with plausible decorum. His partner was not in the mood this morning, and Marshall needed this interview to clarify the fuzzy scene his witness was painting.

"Would you mind retrieving her employment paperwork? We can get most of we need off of her W-4s and I-9. An emergency contact list would be beneficial, too, if you happen to have that."

"Yeah, sure," Paulo answered, reluctance belying the words of cooperation. He turned walked down the shed row, apparently intent on the tack room at the other end. He moved surprisingly quickly for his size, a distinction Marshall filed away for safety measure.

"Asshole." Mary breathed the comment lowly, but Marshall's ears weren't the only ones to have picked it up. A chuckle came from their right, and the young Latino had stalled his horse and wondered over to the pair, an easy smile about him.

"I assure you Paulo's been called worse, and in shorter time," he remarked, the smirk reaching his hazelnut eyes. Lean, but heavier than a jockey, the boy couldn't have been beyond twenty-five. Hastily he wiped his hand on grimy jeans then stuck it out in manners.

"Emilio Francisco."

The marshals warily introduced themselves again, unsure this unexpected enthusiasm.

"Don't mind Paulo," he went on in a grin and head shake. "I've worked for worse. He's a mean _bastardo_, but harmless if you keep out of his way. Can't keep help, so he says little to me 'cause he knows if I leave, no one'll work with his horses. It is all in how you soothe them. I sing to them. They like me; they'll run for me." The grin had grown into a proud expression, a certain innocence of youth easing Marshall's mind. The kid was good, at least.

"What about Corinne?" Mary asked, getting back into the case at hand. Marshall wondered if she was thinking about Corinne's emergency call a couple weeks ago. The girl had said Paulo was mad; had he had her beaten up, or had he had that pleasure himself. It was an open debate.

Emilio grimaced. "Paulo watches her too much, I think. I always tell her she should ride for someone else, someone who is _simpatico, facil_. She stays, though, so I try to keep with her when Paulo's around. His hands, they are mean."

"He beats on her?" Mary questioned aggressively, a growl emerging with the syllables. "Or is he fucking with her?" This time accusatory and dark. Marshall again touched her wrist, drawing her to present circumstance.

Emilio pondered her wording, then nodded in comprehension. "I am sure of nothing; Corinne won't speak of it. But I have my thoughts he tries to hurt her in many ways." He shrugged. "One day, he will do this to the wrong person, and I will not be too sad when she leaves him less a man." Sly look and low laughter.

"Do you know where we could find Corinne?" Marshall asked, gesturing in seeming absentmindedness toward Mary's clipboard. He needed to get Emilio on topic, not worry about if the boy was going to slit the trainer's throat. Though, on second thought, he did wonder if Mary would wind up participating in that joyous pastime.

"It's her day off, and I don't know where she goes, but she is my ride to the Fine Arts Centre many nights. I'm a music student; I'm practicing for my recital next week. You should come." Enthusiasm poured off in waves.

"You could then speak with Corinne, too. Though…" Emilio thought for a moment, recalling. "Though, not tonight. No, she said she had plans, so I am finding a ride to Simms with Jaime Craddock. She's another trainer; really nice."

Marshall frowned. If Corinne was driving regularly…

"Sorry, folks," Paulo interrupted, looking not one iota regretful. Marshall was already beginning to despise the man. "Must have sent all her paperwork to the farm. But I'll get it next trip out, probably next week," he promised. Marshall doubted that highly.

"Thanks for your time," he said instead, nodding to the trainer and nudging Mary by crowding her, suggesting by mere invasion of personal space that it was time to leave, and that no, she could _not_ castrate Paulo with the chain twitch hanging on the barn wall. They didn't have time, and he disliked the additional paperwork.

A courtesy word or two to Emilio, and the pair walked back toward the SUV, contemplation heavy.

"Conveniently missing I-9…" he remarked, leaving the implication silent.

"Well," Mary added, attention scanning the grounds and people. "She was awfully pissy about informing me she was a citizen, but it's far too easy to work in a barn by cash under the table. That's why so many illegals do it. Would explain Jackie's desire to get her quality ID."

"True; if she could prove citizenship, she could work for a trainer who requires the necessary documentation, someone she doesn't have to fear beating the hell out of her."

"But is that enough for Jackie to risk everything?" Mary debated. Marshall shrugged.

"If he loves her, yeah."

He himself knew far too well the reach of that caste.

The return to the office was quiet, broken only by sporadic mentions of possible correlations and food for thought. They had no more than swiped Marshall's card into the rooms when Mary made an explicit sound somewhere between a groan and squeal.

"What? _What?_" Marshall startled as he wheeled about to her. Stan and Delia – in conference by the kitchenette – abruptly ceased their discussion as well.

"Damn it; just realized the time," she bit, rummaging for her bag from her desk drawer. "I'm meeting Shae for lunch and don't wanna be late."

Marshall's brows rose in shock. While he knew (disparagingly) about their lunch date, he'd never known Mary to worry about being on time. Stan caught his eye, his own expression mirroring Marshall's.

"Back later," Mary called, and was immediately out the door.

The two men stared after her in silence before Marshall broke it with aplomb. "Haven't seen an escape that fast since the Lebanese fled _Côte d'Ivoire."_

Stan chuckled. "What was so important?" he asked, leaving Delia and venturing to Marshall's desk where the inspector had yet to settle.

"She's having lunch with Shae." Marshall's amused grin faltered. It hit him with sudden force the irony of it all, the underlying painfulness of the situation. "Two women I'm not sure I want left alone together to their own devices," he quipped, but the humor fell short. Stan followed his lead, though, an attempt forced, though Marshall was sure Stan wasn't quite aware of why.

"Ah… what could those two possibly talk about over lunch, eh? Two women more different I've not met. Not and still have you in common," he included with a flashing glance. "Outside of you as a topic, their conversation will be dependent upon how patient Shae is with Mary's mouth, and how good Mary finds the food."

The laugh was weak, Marshall's eyes still focused on the elevator doors through which he'd watched his partner leave. "The Universe, Fate… such a fickle and anguishing creature…"

"Marshall…" Stan's timbre changed, private, concerned. Marshall could see his boss study him with a careful eye, not missing what must be evident in his stature and efforted front. "She's genuinely worried about you. Is there something I should know about? Some… issue between the two of you?"

"No, just… things." It was too much; the utter ridiculousness of the situation, the slap in the face he was being handed by the grand powers that be. Mary… and Shae. Discussing him. Discussing the romance between him and Shae. To Mary.

Marshall sighed wearily. He was worn out from the battles within, sat down heavily. "Stan…"

**-o-0-o-**

An odd warmth spread through her, and Mary looked on with a soft smile at the elation the younger woman before her exhibited. Shae looked positively radiant, she had to admit, and the sheer joy she displayed left the marshal almost embarrassed.

"I just love it, Mary; thank you again," she gushed, holding the Georgia Tech onesie before her in admiration. The cool breeze whipped about her long tresses, the patio seating subdued with small parties at the midday hour. "How'd you know I did my undergrad work at GT? Marshall must've told you," she went on, not giving Mary the chance to answer that, in fact, she _hadn't_ known.

"What'd you major in?" she queried instead, feeling another topic needed to break the minutes of uncomfortable happiness. Mary wasn't used to being the cause of such genuine pleasure, especially when she felt she had not given the gift all that much thought. Girl was from Georgia. Girl was in school now. Georgia Tech was a big Georgia school. Association by location, that was all.

And that she couldn't bear to purchase the cowboy boots.

"Double major in Business Admin and Global Economics," she replied off-handedly. "International Marketing for my Masters, if I can ever get back on track." Slightly wistful in speech, Shae gave no indication of resentment for just why she was off her time schedule for graduation.

Finally setting the outfit down into its gift bag, Shae leaned back heavily in her chair, a groan of contentment and discomfort settling around them. Her eyes closed momentarily, a hand soothing over the taut skin of her enlarged belly. Corners of her lips tugged upward, soft moan at the ease the movement offered.

Unbidden, Mary's palm fell to her own stomach… diaphragm… belly, oddly concave against the images still imprinted in her mind's eye. Ignoring the idiocy of it, Mary gave in for the moment, allowed herself to feel the strange sense of loss of the baby she never carried. For the moment, she wasn't going to question why obsessive dreams had stalked her, why of all men it was Marshall whose child resided in her fictitious autobiography, and why she mourned the lack of something she never even wanted in the first place. For the moment, she banished all these logical abnormalities from conscious thought and concentrated – for the moment – on the fleeting fantasy.

And in that moment she realized she wanted to try to put herself in Shae's place, to study how she'd feel there. It was a madness, truly. Mary blamed the reoccurring dreams of pregnancy. She blamed Marshall's confession of historical love Saturday afternoon. She blamed anything and anyone where her drama-inundated but sensical world was turned upside down with more than passing curious considerations.

"What's it like?" she found herself asking before she could stop herself. She opened her eyes – only then realizing she'd closed them in her musings – and watched as Shae regarded her several long seconds.

"It's hard to explain, really." Shae's face scrunched in thought, weighing words for ability to convey meaning. "Weird." She cracked a thoughtful smile as elaboration fell in childlike wonder. "Heavy. Ticklish. Whole new outline of personal space. Frightening. Uber-protectiveness."

She seemed to land upon an ideal scripter, pinning Mary with a direct look. "Filling."

Mary's tendency for smartass comeback fell short. Instead she let the words soak in, examined them briefly. Tried to relate them to herself. Felt strangely unsettled. Spoke the first reaction that fell to her lips before her mind even processed the statement.

"Marshall will make an exceptional father." Awareness of what she'd just softly said brought Mary's flushing face up to meet Shae's steady gaze.

"Yes, he will," the younger woman agreed, just as softly, just as convicted. "He's amazing. So supportive of me, of this," her arms encompassed the burgeoning reminder. "He's considerate, thoughtful, intelligent…" Mary noticed Shae's expression turning delighted, her revelations less on Marshall's qualities as a dad and more as a man to be coveted.

Mary's breath held.

"Has the most entrancing blue eyes, with a stare so direct it makes me just quiver with anticipation. Kisses that would make Lady Chatterley blush. Fabulous body with strong, dexterous hands that just –

"Oh; sorry," she apologized with her own freckled face tinging crimson. Shae cleared her throat nervously. "Hormones," she excused, and picked up her fork, toyed with bits of salad left.

Mary could feel her own heat at Shae's southern-drawn words. Whether in embarrassment, unease, or unexpected awareness she wasn't sure. And wasn't going to seek an answer. Desperate to change subject as strongly as the woman across the bistro table was, Mary latched onto diversion of familiarity and non-personal ground.

"He's one of the best at his job," she observed, trying for casual complimentary. "Commands respect from fellow law enforcement without pissing anyone off." Mary wondered if Shae understood how telling that was. Mary could brag on her partner; that came easily. Favorable remarks on her _friend_, however, were more difficult to say. Feelings got in the way; Mary hated feelings. Feared them.

Shae, however, did not need guidance in that respect. She was nodding knowingly, mouth open in a great smile. "Marshall's a phenomenal marshal," she praised, and Mary frowned slightly, wondering what the girl actually _knew_. Her next words clarified this line of consideration.

"I can tell he takes what he does seriously, doesn't react like he's always right, though he usually is. He wears the confident persona of a protector like a second skin, believes solidly in right and wrong." She sighed a laugh. "Makes me feel a bit safer knowing people like him are out there, catching those horrid fugitives and guarding the people who'd see justice done – the judges, the witnesses, the politicians willing to stand up to thugs like the Cristo Cartel and Lagossi Family."

Mary's brows shot up, surprise evident in her reaction. Shae merely laughed.

"Yes, Mary; I do know a bit about my boyfriend's world, that there are nasties out there like drug lord Juan Octavio. I do pay attention to the news, you know."

"Columbian cartels aren't exactly six o'clock evening news," Mary said with meaning. She was certainly taken off guard by the obscure law enforcement reference and briefly wondered what other surprises this slight of a girl had in store. Mary didn't want to like her any more than she did already; grudging respect mixed with flabbergasted curiosity mingled in her emotional war. Why would Shae be aware of the South American drug trade?

"I'm in International Business, Mary," she replied, taking a bite of the cherry tomato left on her plate. Mary realized she'd spoken aloud her last thought. "Everything affects business, especially the external environment of a country. That includes the culture, the laws, and the people who control the resources."

"Really?" Flat, questioning, subtle admittance of learning something new. Shae nodded.

"Yep. I've been working on my thesis for the last year, doing research. It's on the potential emerging market of South America. I've really been focusing on the influence of the drug trade and, on a larger scale, the impact the local cartel has on opening that market. Juan Octavio of the Cristo Cartel has a hell of a lot to do with what business transpires in Columbia. Well, actually he has influence in several countries, since he started in Argentina where he and his American wife raised polo ponies as a cover. Not that anyone down there really needs a cover," she snorted without humor.

"So yeah," she continued, folding and refolding the napkin in her lap, "I have an idea of what Marshall faces in his work, and I couldn't be prouder of him. Even read up on the history of the Marshals Service; have to say y'all are some of the most kick-ass law enforcement I've ever seen."

Mary felt the warmth of the genuine praise, and tried to tamp down the pleasure; she wouldn't be moved by compliments. Well, not much.

"He's passionate about the job," Mary noted, not sure if she was trying to help Shae understand Marshall, or discourage her. "Gone often. You okay with that?"

The marketing major puckered her mouth in thought, nodding. "Yeah. I'm pretty independent. I mean, of course I miss him when he's not there, but I'm not a little wilting flower needing constant attention. I do pretty well on my own. He needs to do his job, be who he is; I respect that. We respect each other. I worry about him, yeah, but he's been trained how to take care of himself, and I trust him to do that, to come home to me."

Something in Mary's gut dropped, Shae's innocent elaboration striking a chord that twitched in pain. She dismissed it, refusing to dwell. Thankfully Shae continued, preventing the marshal from revisiting the 'why' of that pain.

She should have been more cautious in that thankfulness. Cures often hurt worse than the illness.

"As long as his schedule doesn't interfere with our trip to Cape Cod next year." Shae chuckled. "Marshall's brother invited us to a little get-together next March. Marshall said that gives me time after the baby's born to get comfortable sharing him or her with others, as he says we'll take 'im with us, introduce him to the family." She smiled indulgently. "He said he's going to teach the baby at least three languages from the day he's born, as well as how to cook, how to treat a lady, and the importance and beauty of the arts. Ah, Marshall…"

But Mary's auditory focus was failing in light of the new implications. Future plans. Family introductions. Lifelong intentions.

He was going to marry her. Whether he realized it or not.

The feeling of a lead weight sat heavily in the pit of her stomach, reminding Mary that the whole scenario bothered her much more than she cared to admit. But the pity was that it was not an unsettling that resulted in her dislike of Shae, in thinking the girl not good enough for Marshall. In truth, it was the opposite; Shae was wonderful for Marshall.

She – Mary – just didn't feel good about it. Any of it.

Feelings again. Could she never escape that ephemeral curse?

Shae's varying topics of Marshall conversation had left her shaken, confused, hungry… desperately hungry. She would have to diminish or extinguish that hunger soon, some random race car driver, perhaps, just to get the engine revved down some to an easy idle. She shouldn't be having feelings of possessiveness about her partner. He'd always be her friend – he'd said that very thing to her – and her partner. Why did his future with Shae feel like a threat to her own world?

**-o-**

Marshall peered unseeingly at the database before him, wholly aware of Mary's silent return. She seemed pensive as she claimed her chair, fiddled with items on her desk, distraction apparent. He figured it best to broach the subject first with Mary, be prepared before seeing Shae tonight. He couldn't put his finger on precisely why, but the whole hour-long girl bonding time left him with a sick feeling. Mary's behavior since returning did little to alleviate that worry.

"So…" he drawled, eyes still on his monitor. "How was lunch?"

Mary seemed to shake off her heavy thoughts, murmured at first generalized pleasantries of 'fine' and 'food all right.' Then a silence fell, her agitation more failure to calm than irritation. Sense of dread deepened. He had to wait only 74 seconds before that unnamed edge was defined… named… thrust upon him.

"You in love with her?" The question caught him unaware and he started, turning his chair to fully face her. She was fiddling most attentively with the origami crane he'd given her many months ago. He hadn't known she still had it.

Deep breath. Tread lightly. He didn't know what brought this on, this line of questioning, and said as much.

"Where'd this come from?" he asked, and the sharp, quick glance she gave him said she'd taken note he'd not answered the question. But she answered his, anyway.

"Shae was talking about the plans you guys had for next year. How you're going to teach the baby different languages… those are long term plans, Marshall. Ones that suggest permanence. And with someone like you…" She seemed to take a moment to regroup, but he had to admit with preference she was being straight forward with him. "Well, that sort of thing equates commitment. Marriage."

She'd said the last word quietly, and part of him cringed. Yes, he'd been thinking it, giving serious consideration, found himself making long term plans with his sweet girlfriend. Moving on with his life, like he'd promised himself he'd do. Why, then, did the vocalization of these advances in his life churn so when she was the one to speak them?

Carefully he answered, not relishing going down that lane, blissfully thankful Stan was on a conference call and no one else was anywhere nearby.

"I am the committing type, yes," he agreed slowly, choosing his words. "I don't want to live out my life alone, Mary; I want the comfort of a solid, relatively permanent relationship. I know nothing is permanent," he interjected, holding off her years-long argument, "but marriage, for me, is pretty damn close."

Only their breathing broke the tenuous silence between them for long moments. Marshall had neither confirmed nor denied Mary's insinuations; both were too starkly aware of this fact. He knew she worried a marriage would hurt their friendship. He wanted to allay her fears, and would. Just… this wasn't the time nor appropriate topic of conversation in which to do it.

"What about this thing between us?" she suddenly asked. She sounded small, and Marshall frowned, his breath catching. Pulse racing. Finally she looked at him, eyes tight in worry. "You admitted as much Saturday."

_Damn it!_ He knew that confession was going to come back to bite him in the ass. Why couldn't she just let it go, allow it to be the closure he'd meant it to be? She didn't love him – not in that way. Was she really that anxious his happiness would derail their partnership? That she'd have to share him?

He couldn't assure her right now; the feelings dredged up were too deep, too real, and honesty was the only course. She'd opened the book; he was going to read her the pages of truth.

"What… _thing?_" It killed him to have to say it like that, as though there had never been any feelings there, but he had to be clear, because the truth was there, lurking in his next words, slowly given. "Something _between_ us would imply something involving _both parties_. Had there ever been any… _thing_… lying between us…" He stared at her for a moment, studying, intense, then looked down at some point off on the floor, his voice dropping almost introspectively. "It certainly didn't…"

Something passed across her face when he dared glance back at her. Indefinable. But she didn't run, didn't absorb the reality check, accept it, and move on with a snarky remark as he'd expected. That was different. Made him desperate, desperate that she understand this wasn't a game, wasn't the time for her to seek him with a sense of claim because of his feelings – latent they may be. She wanted to hold onto him for fear of that third party, not because she wanted him for herself. Her face revealed that honesty even if her speech didn't. There wasn't plaintive longing in that question of what lay between them; there was only an argument that he not find a rivalry friendship with Shae.

Pulling strength from somewhere down deep, Marshall drew a fortifying breath, met her gaze steadily, and laid it all out so no misconceptions lay between them.

"Mary," he began, throat tight, face pained, but determination holding him aloft, forcing him through. Eyes never wavered. "You're never going to feel the same for me as I do for you. It's not a matter of waiting, of time passing for you to realize these mirroring feelings for me are there, or for you to develop them; you don't love me like that." A trembling vibrated within him, his breath catching before following up the point, softer now. "You never will.

"Time is only a matter for _me_, a necessity in my acceptance of these facts. Of regrouping so I can get on with life and enjoy that portion to which I'd closed off all other options… Just because I was so in love with you, I couldn't even consider them. Not honestly, at least."

Here he paused. "I finally realized that, Mary. Several months ago, after all these years of being hopelessly in love with you, I realized that. And I accepted that any chance of happiness only lay in letting go of the distant stars I could never touch. The glowing orange-red of burning embers is a beautiful light, too. Not as enduring, not as remarkable, perhaps, but one that offers warmth, tangibility, because it's not out of reach."

Gazes held until Mary turned away, the approach of two marshals in conversation a suitable breaking point. Marshall turned back to his work, but accomplished nothing in the random motions.

Each marshal sat lost in their own musings; each realizing their lives had shifted, wobbled. Seeking stability once again.


	16. Ch 16: Return to Innocence

**Disclaimer****: **My name's not David Maples. 'nough said.

**Author's Note:** How did everyone fare from the last chapter ending? Tear-free? Promise this one is less painful, though definitely full of its own emotional rockings, as well as…

I'm also happy to see that my remark about Marshall being the committing type was spot on, as was distinctly pointed out by last Sunday's episode. 'Commitmentphile,' indeed. Tonight's ep should be another superb showing.

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so _**please**_ take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts! Remember – if you sign in, I can (and will) reply to your review.

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 16: Return to Innocence**

She walked in twenty minutes past usual, having exercised the morning in acts of frightened witness reassurance. Activity in the office was average, nothing standing out, nothing unusual. But Mary's stomach was taut with anxiety. She was unsure. She didn't like to be unsure.

How did you face your partner, your best friend, after the words that had been said the day before? The last time you saw them, as a matter of fact. Because they were called out to handle a domestic that was getting out of hand. And didn't return until you'd already gone home for the evening.

And hadn't returned your hard-pressed, eventual text message.

But Marshall wasn't at his desk, and Mary felt relief at his absence. Then guilt. Then sadness. God, she hated these attacking emotions. But a quick glance about revealed her partner ensconced in the conference room, apparent new intake seeing the new light of day.

A reprieve.

Tossing her bag into a desk drawer, Mary shed her insulating jacket, sat down, and froze.

Wedged between the E-U and D-J keys stood a small enveloped card, quality stock, rushed block letters adorning the front: **MARY**

Frightened stare and several breaths before Mary could bring her hands to retrieve the card, fingers trembling at the subdued production of sliding the heavier paper from its shroud. She missed the anxious glances from inside the conference room, the ones darting back to her profiled form as she read. But the small script print held focus, mixing feelings and releasing a length of her wound tension.

_I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry for my words yesterday. I won't deny their truthfulness, but they should have remained unsaid. I know – I really do – your fear that my relationship with Shae will alter yours and mine, but I promised you once I'd never leave, and I stand by that promise. _

_Mary, you are my __**best friend**__; that will not change. Not ever. Not for Shae; not for all the cowboys in all the bars. Not even for our own personal insecurities._

It wasn't signed. Not that it needed to be, but something about that detail rooted itself in Mary's brain. It wasn't signed because there could never be any doubt – ever – who had said, written it.

Best friend. He'd penned over it several times, darkening the words with heavy hand and underlined twice. Rare ghost of a smile drifted across Mary's lips. _Think he meant it?_ she asked herself wryly. Yeah, he meant it. He always meant it. That was the thing about Marshall: he was sincere. Genuine. And she supposed that was one of the things that made her like him so much, trust him. Because he'd not lie to her. She could have faith that whatever he said to her, he meant. Even when what he said, she most did not want to hear.

Mary could not see the furtive glances beside her, trepid through blind slatted glass. Pauses halting explanations of disallowed contacts and protocol in background information. Worry on how she was receiving the message, how she took it, how she felt. This she saw none of. She saw only the litany of reassurance upon the fine linen paper.

And she thought.

When, 17 minutes later, Marshall and his witness escaped the confines of the conference room, Mary was already hip deep in her own witness issues. She barely noted his departure, entranced instead with background reconciliation for Niles Lebinski. Fleetingly giggles assaulted her; Niles had been her excuse to get Marshall on the phone that night months ago when she'd thought he had been exaggerating plans with a date. She had learned that night that he had, in fact, been out with a woman. Shae.

Mary's smile faltered. She liked Shae; she really did. And Mary knew she was being silly, selfish perhaps, and worried for nothing over Marshall's relationship with the girl. Woman. Whatever. His note only reinforced what Marshall had told her the previous weekend: nothing would change between the partners. It was her biggest fear, a strong reason why she had violently denied what Marshall had been telling her for the last couple of years: that he loved her. A romantic relationship… that would just fuck up a wonderful friendship, and she'd fight tooth and nail to keep that irreplaceable bond with Marshall.

So why, then, did she still feel a little pang about him marrying her? Not that he'd specifically said he was going to marry her, Mary reminded herself. But even the idea… God, she was turning into an emotional potluck these days. She'd blame it on hormones.

When Marshall returned to the office more than two hours later, he was focused on a file from the moment the card swipe cleared the door. Mary couldn't help the sidelong glances she anxiously threw him. Not once today had they even made eye contact, and though logic dictated that all was well – didn't his card say as much? – insecurity always lurked in Mary's psyche, and she would worry until she saw his eyes, until he told her with just a look that they were okay.

For nearly twenty minutes she hoped to catch his attention. Clearing of throat, shuffling of papers, even a quick stroll to the coffee pot with visual checks on the return. No deal. Brows drawn as he studied his monitor, scribbled notes, pulled printouts. Finally unable to work out of pure preoccupation, Mary decided to test the waters… the old fashioned way.

Pulling a hard copy memo she had thoroughly dismissed in reading the first time, Mary set about a quick lock 'n fold. Verifying no eyes upon her, Mary calculated, measured up, then…

_Goal!_

A solid _twhack!_ to Marshall's cheek, then the paper football fell to the floor, just missing redirection by his annoyed, swatting hand. Mary held her breath, bottom lip caught between teeth, and waited.

Nothing. Well, nothing aside from eyes shifting down to spot the crude origami-esque weapon of choice at his feet. A scowl formed, but his attention returned to his work. Paranoia robbed Mary's timid smile, stomach dropped. Maybe things were just… _okay_. She had held too much expectation for Marshall's apology to mean things would go back to what they once were. Feeling heat warm her cheeks, Mary turned back to her computer, diligently checking e-mails without really reading them. Scooting her chair back, Mary tried for distance, feeling suffocated within the confines of her desk.

Unbidden wetness formed in her eyes. She wouldn't let them gather, be seen, fall. Blinking rapidly, they cleared, but left in their stead the blatant realization of how much she just wanted _normal_ back. Normal for them, anyway. Change scared the hell out of her, and she was afraid she'd lost that fine-tuned balance in the single most important relationship in her life, the only stable one. It bothered her just how much Marshall meant to her, how much she counted on his steadfast presence, his sounding board, his comfort and guidance. If she had inadvertently screwed that –

_Snap! _The biting sting was abrupt, vicious, her outer thigh tensing in survival reaction. Mary jerked, whipping her head about to the left, but Marshall was still intent on his computer. She glanced about yet saw nothing to indicate the source, no buzzing of an insect to swat. Peripherally something caught her eye and Mary looked back across the space between the partners' desks. Marshall had not moved, not even appearing to notice her agitation.

Then she saw what subconscious attention had caught. Marshall's arms were not as usual upon his desk, fingering keyboard or papers. It was an odd sight to see them low, behind the desk… until they peeked around the corner, well below the desktop. One wrist resting on his knee, the other behind it, the pair poised with –

A carefully aimed, high tension-loaded rubber band.

She looked up to meet his narrowed gaze full of mischief, and smiled. His own answering her just before he released the latex ammunition.

Squeals of delight and relief were muted as Mary engaged in forbidden war with Marshall, both attempting subterfuge in the entire battle. It wouldn't do to be witnessed by colleagues, their professionalism undermined by what mere mortals simply would not understand. This kinship was all theirs; it would never matter if anyone else ever understood it.

They did.

Finally giving up the appearance of work, Marshall took matters one step further, multiplying each shot, Mary rapidly seeking out any feasible shrapnel found within reach. Intensity intermingled with devilish glee, no spoken word ever needed. And just as a simultaneous firing left both inspectors chair-skidding, both were pummeled serially with secondary heavy artillery.

Shocked, they turned to find the source, discovering Chief Inspector Stan McQueen armed once more, a giant postal-sized packing rubber band stretched tight, aim darting between the two marshals.

"Now, if I have the attention of the ranks in file, I'd like to direct the combat veterans to the Situation Room where they may be briefed on matters of slightly less importance… like a possible security breach?" The smirk diluted his authoritative tone. "Cease fire, lower your weapons, and retreat as instructed, troops."

With a nod, Stan turned to retrieve his notes from his office. The partners glanced at each other conspiratorially, facial twitches exchanged, then silently agreed.

"_Inspectors!_" came the growl as the double attack bombarded the broadcloth back of Stan's new Italian suit.

**-o-**

The grin of relief he hid behind moderately stern commands was one of preclusion. An underlying concern had held deep in Stan since noon the previous day, the very moment his senior marshal had dropped all pretense and accepted the chief's offer of lunch down the street. The meal had been above average; the conversation had been surreal. It wasn't that Stan was stone cold shocked at the revelations brought about in Marshall's story; it was that Marshall told this story at all.

It had begun with the mention of Mary's worry for Marshall; she had approached him that morning, noting her partner's demeanor and actions of the past few days. Stan had promised he would speak with Marshall, see if he could ferret out cause and affect the status quo. Any number of issues could be at hand, and though they had a solid working relationship, Stan had never expected Marshall to be forthcoming with any particularly personal situations. He also had not expected anything beyond a few troubling thoughts to be involved with the man's preoccupied state.

How wrong he'd been on both counts.

When Mary had dashed out the door for her lunch date with Shae and Stan had broached the subject with Marshall, the latter had given up all pretense, easing down upon the corner of his desk, a sigh heavy with troubles unspoken falling from his lips. "Stan…" he had drawn out, a plea. Chief McQueen had then understood that Marshall needed a friend, not his boss, and they had left for a café lunch with an hour off all official records. It was there, it was then, that Marshall had done the unthinkable: he broke the code of silence and admitted the entire tale of unrequited love for his partner of seven years.

What had given Marshall the courage – or perhaps the failing scruples – to share this Shakespearian-imaged tragedy Stan did not know. It could be that he simply could not hold bottled up all this emotion and vicious irony within his single six-foot-two athletic frame, or it could be that he had finally moved on, had gotten over this long, one-sided love affair with Mary, and embraced in renewed optimism his relationship with Shae. Stan was predisposed to lean in favor of the former.

He had feared that matters were only going to worsen after the eerily quiet afternoon yesterday, a tension palpable between his favorite inspectors. But then today he had walked in on a rubber band fight, complete with childlike enthusiasm and disregard for anyone, any professionalism, any thought to their surroundings. And it had been oh-so-wonderful. Stan glanced again at them now sitting at the conference table, quirky single-word commentaries and smirking silent passages between them once more, and his heart fluttered with a lightness of ease almost forgotten. They were them again; he had never been so utterly relieved.

"Nicky Lambert, a.k.a. Niles Lebinski," he informed the two, "is having some interesting parties these days; up all night, sleepin' all day."

"Way to work in a Mötley Crüe reference there, Chief," Mary mused, sarcasm heavy. Stan couldn't help the pleasure that ran through him at the normalcy of her remark. Even better, the follow-up tag team she shared with Marshall. "Teacher's trying to play fit-in with the cool kids."

"At least he's not indulging in an episode of a mosh pit," Marshall observed.

"God, Jesus; can you imagine Stan crowd surfing?" She snorted with unabashed comedy. "Like a Scud missile skimming the waves."

Marshall canted his head in apparent thought. "Aside from the gross misrepresentation of the motional nature of a Scud missile, I'm thinking your description might be more apt to a torpedo, though such analogy would suggest more a matter of being passed below the heads of the crowd."

"No; I'm thinking more atomic bomb," she quipped, giving Marshall a glinted look.

"More compact nature, imposing threat if dropped, lasting effects on a grand scheme if detonated… Yeah, I believe you're onto something there, Mare." He paused in ponder, then looked to her for clarification. "Fat Man or Little Boy?"

She turned to grin at Stan. "Oh, too easy."

Stan rolled his eyes, a weary sigh escaping. And he'd been thrilled to have this back? Surely he was due for a session with Dr. Finkle. Perhaps he'd been better off an hour ago, worrying if his inspectors would survive the night.

"As I was saying…"

-o-0-o-

Mary shifted again in her seat, stretching cramped legs and arching her back as the GMC's framework would allow. Hands gripping the headrest for support, she set her feet to the floorboard and imitated an abbreviated backbend at a forty-five degree angle. Headlights of a passing car gave reflection of her partner's impression.

Appreciation. He wasn't trying to hide that. But Mary caught the forced glance away, and settled back into place with a stifled yawn. They had been on stakeout for just over two hours, and nearing midnight, Mary was both annoyed and weary.

"How long we have to keep watch on this frat boy wannabe, anyway? I've a date with my DVR and a four-pack of Marble's waiting diligently for me at home. Oh, plus more comfortable footwear," she added, rotating her ankles.

She heard Marshall's drawn breath, and without sight could still envision his patient, parental expression.

"Mare, I worry about you."

"What was your first clue, Sherlock?"

He ignored the barb. "You need to get out more, meet new people, people outside of cowboys and outlaws, so to speak. Expand your horizons; maybe you'll feel better. Staying at home constantly isn't healthy."

"I _have_ been thinking of taking a psychology class."

"Really? That's great." Enthusiasm rolled off him in the dark.

She snorted. "Yeah, maybe I can figure out what's wrong with me."

"Oh, would you like that list alphabetically or chronologically?" he quipped, their afternoon play evidently still lurking. Mary's answer, however, failed to reach such levity.

"Gee, thanks, partner."

Marshall obviously caught her change of mood, redirected his own. More serious, he answered with a question to which she knew he wanted answered.

"What makes you think something is wrong with you?"

"It's more like why I'm not good enough," she clarified, suddenly wishing she'd not brought the subject up. She focused visually on a late-night dog walker now passing before her witness' well-lit house.

Side glance in the reflection of a distant streetlamp revealed the pointed look Marshall gave her. He apparently found her alteration of word choice a poor reason to change his question. He waited for her answer.

She sighed; like a terrier with a bone. He wouldn't let this go, now.

"Something Mom said at Peter's that night. You know, the one when I called you at God o'clock in the morning? Yeah, that. She'd inferred – hell, spelled out for me – about how I can't be so choosey, how I did have Raph and yet fucked that up, too. Geez… even Raph found out I wasn't good enough." She picked at her jeans, imaginary loose threads or particulates foreign.

"_What?_ He said that?" Marshall was incredulous, and Mary could only shake her head to calm him at first.

"Well, no; more like insinuated I wasn't '_enough_' – I'm never enough, Marshall. And I don't know what else to be. What more I have to be." There lay the crux of the matter, the splinter that dug and tore and infected her regularly. She disliked not being enough, but she _despised_ not knowing what else she had to be in order to _be_ enough.

Marshall's response was lowly impassioned. "Mary, there's nothing wrong with you." She cut him a look, her differing opinion clear. "Really, there's not. It didn't work out with Raphael because you two were so different. He refused to see who you really are. He had decided what he wanted you to be, and when failed to live up to his expectations, he was unjustifiably surprised and let down – but _not by you_," he emphasized. Mary couldn't look at him, was feeling slightly ill by this point. Her partner went on.

"He was let down by his own delusions of your relationship. The only shortfall you have is in your head."

"Oh, thanks a lot, Marshall." She threw him a glare, then looked away again. "Now you're saying I'm dumb."

"No, that's not what I'm saying," he explained, a bit aggrieved. "You're damn smart. What I'm saying is that the only failure to _be enough_, as you call it,is the self-imposed requirement you've set for yourself. It's like you're deciding you're not enough for someone when it's only _you_ you have to please. And these _someones_ whom you are measuring yourself for are the ones who are, in reality, not right for _you_."

Mary let his words drift around in her mind for a moment, but when the same recollection came forth, she shied her head and asked softly, "What about you? You know the real me, you get me, and yet… yet you made it clear yesterday that I would never be enough."

Chancing a look, Mary made out the pained expression on her best friend's face. Something told her he was reliving that moment, one he would rather shut away. It took Marshall several deep, slow breaths before he spoke. And even then, it was staccato, careful. Hestitant.

"Mary… it wasn't, isn't that you're not enough. You're perfect just the way you are. What I was trying to say – and I'm begging you, please… after this moment, please let it go. I don't think I can dredge through all these emotional minefields again and still come out in one piece, scarred or not." There was real pleading underlying his voice. He continued softly.

"What I was trying to say was not that _you_ weren't enough, but that… that _I_ would never be enough for _you_. Not for what I wanted. And that was okay; I've resigned myself to that fact, and accepted as enough the friendship we already have. Mare… it wasn't you not being enough to be loved and wanted; you are –"

His abrupt pause told her he'd caught himself, that the next words to fall were not his original ones. Finally he said, "…more than enough."

His last testament to her worth seeped into the restricted confines of the truck, falling into a long silence neither was moved to break. Each in their own thoughts, Mary found his voice echoing in her head, memory replaying their heartbreak, _I loved you… I was _in_ love with you_. But this time their past tense reasoning was offered by way of self-survival… by the explanation Marshall just enlightened her to. His difficult speech last Saturday took on new meaning, and Mary found her hollow fears of self-failure replaced by something akin to pity, to sorrow for hurting her best friend by withholding what she couldn't give him, no matter how deserving he may be.

Nearly twenty minutes passed in fashion before Marshall surprised her with a command.

"Give me your foot."

"What?" Startled to say the least, she was confused as well. Seeing him as though he were falling from a hallucinogen high, he merely met her stare with quirked lips and amused eyes.

"Your foot, Mare. Bring your foot up here and place it in my lap," he clarified, gesturing with a flick of his hands and fingers. "I'm paying off an owed promise. Seems as good a time as any, considering we're stuck here for a while."

Synapses fired and met and greeted, and suddenly Mary understood: Marshall had promised a foot massage. Eager to change atmosphere and not a little appealing for the physical comfort, Mary twisted slightly in her seat and brought her left leg up to his lap where he pulled it into place.

"You better be worth the wait, Magic Fingers," she scoffed half-heartedly. "All hype and no live-up-to-ness makes Mary a grouchy marshal."

His brow arched. "And this is different how?"

"Just get to working that sole, Dr. Scholl. Let me worry about your appraisal review."

Marshall said nothing, just smiled and focused on his duty, shedding her boot and sock to the console. Mary lay her head back between the headrest and passenger door window and closed her eyes, thoughts drifting. She knew Marshall would watch the house unerringly while fulfilling the IOU, so she took a moment relax, regroup.

Details of the past few days swam about her mental eye, refreshers of details blaring with regard to lying witnesses and threat assessments. Puzzles she jigsawed around, playing for an angle that would make all the pieces fit, tried to picture box top image that was the intended result.

Bits of information flowed and ebbed, and Mary couldn't quite grasp the full connection of anything, as something was interrupting her thought processes, like pattering rain drawing her out of slumber…

Mary's eyes opened a quarter, allowing the shadowed sight before her solidify into her best friend. She hadn't been asleep; it hadn't been rain. She'd merely been thinking… but the physical broke all concentration as strong, deft fingers kneaded stale, stiff arch… individualized toe attention, rotate and rub. Strength, yet gentle. Powerfully sedative with a touch of energy. Mary could certainly get used to this.

She closed her eyes again, relishing the massage, allowing endorphins released to buoy her contemplations. Several minutes more and she was again reconstructing timelines, questions answered versus oddities that stuck out with explanations scented in fish oil. Once more she was finding dots of data, connecting them, tossing out the red herrings when… again… distraction…

Except this time Mary's unintentional response was not the pleasantly repletion of achy tendons. And her foot was no longer the innocent workhorse taken daily for granted.

Somewhere in the back of Mary's mind, Marshall's voice from a distant trivial conversation expounded upon reflexology, on the erogenous zones on the bottom of the foot… right where his thumbs were pressing… circling… fingers wrapped about her foot.

Wait. No. Mary slightly shook her head, clearing the thoughts. It was ridiculous; it was a foot rub, and there was nothing hot and sexual about it. Damn good feeling? Yes. Arousing? Uh, no –

No. Hands manipulating the metatarsals held no sensual component for Mary Shannon. Neither did her ankle. But Mary's stomach knotted the very moment her body became aware of one simple, unstated fact: Marshall's definition of 'foot massage' did not cease at the foot.

This… this she was made aware of immediately, unnervingly.

Never breaking rhythm, Marshall's right hand had continued its hypnotic kneading as it glided along its exploratory path, finding her calf muscling… caressing, with just enough pressure… Marshall's touch methodical, luring.

A dry swallow tore at Mary's throat, and she forced her breathing to remain a semblance of normal. This wasn't something she should be feeling – not from a foot rub, and most certainly not from _Marshall_ performing such everyday task. But her nerves disagreed, chanting their delight in this man's touch, and the little devil sitting on her shoulder whispered sweet suggestions in her ear: _You're curious; it's perfectly normal; let your mind run rampant with fantasy, just as it did yesterday, and most every night for the past weeks._

And she indulged.

Allowing her eyes to drift closed once more, Mary shut out the world and concentrated on just his motions, how good they felt. ___Is__ this was what had prompted Shae to suggest how good a foot rub was – was that what Marshall had done for her?_ Mary tried to reconcile the increasing awareness of every little twitch of long, strong fingers; instead, more questions blurted out inside her head, demanding answers with the utter jealousy of an insecure teenage girl.

Shae had been privy to this routine; what else had he done with his hands for… or rather to… her? Embarrassment flooded Mary's face with shameful heat as she realized just how possessive she'd become of her partner. But curiosity and circumstance collided and fought. Guilty pleasure won out, and Mary pushed away all thoughts of Shae in order to take in a single, full awareness of Marshall's hands… touch… physical pleasure.

The fifth generation marshal was all about awareness tonight. He had made her aware earlier the difference in what she had understood and what he had meant. The difference in being enough, and being right. And now… His intoxicating sculpting of her flesh was a wordless reminder that he really was – despite how often she had forgotten the distinction – a man. Marshall may not be the overtly masculine sort _Mary_ found appealing – necessary, even – but he was a man nonetheless. An awareness she might not be able to so easily ignore again.

And connotations of that fated kiss she'd once witnessed him offer Shae now had her thoroughly intrigued with hands she'd known for superior marksmanship… and intricate folds of delicate paper sculpture.


	17. Ch 17: Perchance to Dream

**Disclaimer****: **Promise I'm not an IPS writer venturing off for a little toying of plot ideas for fan response.

**Author's Note:** Damn! I'm feeling like Marshall here – I KNOW my witness. Er, I _know_ my WitSec Team. Yeah, that's it. First the commitment-fiend Marshall is, then my whole schpeal on Marshall reiterating friendship with Mary… vindicated in that night's episode. Sweet! Can't wait for tonight's new episode – "_**We're**_ having a baby," indeed!

**PLEASE NOTE:** Not only am I not altering my story one iota in reference to what Season 4 brings, but am making every effort to not allow it to influence SYH _whatsoever_. Coincidences are just that, or some damn fine visiting in Marshall's head. ;~)

To all who've commented such, **thank you**. It's nice to know there are fans who'd rather see Shae on the show with Marshall than Abby. I'm preening over that – hah!

_**Sourthernkeltic**_ – thanks! If only they'd offer for me to write for them, or even consult. ;~) (can't PM you a reply, so…)

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so _**please**_ take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts! Are you guys telling me you seriously have nothing to say about these chapters? No thoughts on something made you cry (blame me), or left you heartbroken (blame me), or left you confused (blame m- uh, blame the caffeine, chocolate or wine)? Hm-huh?

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 17: Perchance to Dream**

His own personal circle of Hell. It lay perhaps between the Second and Third, a half step past mere Lustfulness and yet not quite Glutton, though that could be questioned were the feed of greed the taste of Punishment. Dante would be proud, indeed. And yet, to top it off, this demonic torment was very much self-inflicted.

Had masochists burrowed their own niche in Lucifer's desolate wasteland?

Marshall squeezed his shut eyes even tighter in reaction. What had he been thinking? had been his first self-flagellation, but short lived. He had been thinking of peace offering, of proving nothing had changed between them. Of reassurance by physical force their camaraderie still weighed, of sympathy for her aching appendages and by no little recollection a promise to both Shae and Mary that he would do just this.

But _just this_ wasn't just _that_.

Controlled breathing blended with the Eastern approach he was taking to the massage, but it wasn't entirely helping. Marshall eased about in his seat fluidly, careful not to disrupt the methodical workings of his hands on firm, silky flesh. It was the same sort of relaxing comfort he'd given Shae many weeks ago. Same technique, location. At that time his mind had wondered, drifting to compare his girlfriend's reaction to that of what he suspected would be Mary's to precisely those efforts. Envisioning Mary's response had been an uneasy experience, not one of fantasy easily forgotten.

Except this time it was Mary – real, unadorned by the tricks of self-created dreams. Recollected impulses sluiced through him, unwanted but uncontrollable. No amount of breathing techniques could quell his rapid heartbeat as fingers manipulated and caressed, too aware that this was the real thing.

Marshall shifted uncomfortably.

**-o-0-o-**

_The tunnelesque hallway was dark, a single incandescent hanging from on wires from metal piping along the roof. Illuminated were a wine rack hanging from the rock wall and single, nondescript square wooden table to which Robert Epps was chained. He wasn't talking, but Mary was going to make him talk. She was leaning across the narrow surface, growling demands, but Stan kept telling her there wasn't enough pie, that they'd have to use cupcakes to feed the prisoner._

_ Mary turned to tell him Epps still had leftover swan when crying came from down the hall. "Aren't you going to get that?" Eleanor asked sternly, and when Mary asked why the hell she should, Brandi told her, "Because it's __**your**__ baby, Mary." Then Brandi was kneeling on the floor with the baby sitting upright on the table, trying to calm it, while Marshall was there in Epps' place, shackled to the table __**and the baby**__ and Shae was still pregnant, standing behind Marshall as he spoke in French to the wailing child who began to sniffle as Shae cooed to it in some southern drawl with her left hand on Marshall's shoulder, the simple golden band catching the bulb's dim light._

_ And the baby started crying again, Brandi's voice desperate –_

Mary woke in rapid stages of degrees of fuzziness, only to comprehend the crying was quite real. "What the hell?" she mumbled, clamoring drunkenly out of bed, stumbling to her bedroom door, down the hall.

"Oh, thank God you're home, Mary," Brandi greeted, pacing Mary's living room, a squalling year-plus-something girl in her arms. "I thought maybe your car broke down again," she managed, voice falling in troughs of the child's tearful screams.

"I brought over the sample books of cakes and flowers for you to look through," she went on, oblivious to Mary's disheveled, bedclothes state. Mary took a moment to intake the entire situation, ears cringing at the half-choking decibels emitting from a head of strawberry blonde curls. She drew an annoyed scowl and made straight for her chattering sister.

"I'm thinking a seven-tiered cake, each tier a different flav– What?" she broke off as Mary reached her, ignored her, and abruptly snatched the red-faced, bawling 17-month old from her arms. Without further discussion, Mary propped the girl on her left hip, freeing her right arm as she purposefully strode into the kitchen.

"Sorry about Charlotte," Brandi went on pleadingly, following her sister. "Jenna had a job interview, and I told her I'd watch her, but she's been crying for the last half hour and she won't shut up and –"

Brandi cut off as she watched in confusion as Mary reached the freezer, pulling out a Flavor Ice and snipping the plastic wrapping open. She pushed the sugary ice through and held it to the child's mouth, brusquely yet gently offering the sweet. Mary would keep to herself the fact that she had the childlike treat because they made for distinctive additives for when she was feeling creative with her alcohol. All that mattered was that the little girl was now alternately sucking and gnawing on the ice bar, holding it on her own now.

Mary ran her fingers across the crimson forehead, brushing wayward, damp locks back, ran the back of her hand across temple and cheeks.

"How'd you do that?" Brandi asked, eyes wide in amazement at the sudden quiet. Mary turned a reproachful eye to her.

"Brandi, it's a hundred and ten flippin' degrees outside," she said, subconsciously minding her language before the toddler. "She's hot, she's sunburned, and she's cranky. It's not rocket science." Allowing her sister to take that in, but seeing still bemusement, the marshal went on.

"Whether you remember it or not, Jersey used to become an inferno in summer. Especially when you didn't have air conditioning." She walked around the bar, voice softer now as she recollected memories preferred lost. "It's the only thing that would make you feel better. I'd snatch a dollar from Mom's purse and take you down to the Wawa store for one. Made the day pass, kept us cool for a while."

The hum of ventilation drifted through the house, filling the silence as Mary hovered over the photo album on her counter. _Flick. Flick_. Eyes scanning with quick, focused purpose. "This one. Or the peach roses on the second page."

Switching albums, Mary whipped through the photos with all the directness of a line-up. This time it took three tries of flipping back and forth between four heavy, laminated pages, all the while jostling Charlotte distractedly on her hip, hand wrapped securely around the child with fingers flexing in comfort. Finally, with a sigh, "Go with the five-layer. You can save the top for your year anniversary, put lemon as the second, mix up chocolate and vanilla for the lower three. It gives you a place for your colors without looking like it's a prop out _La Cage Aux Folles_."

With that she snapped the oversized cover shut, stacked the two, and turned back to her sister.

"Here." She succinctly handed Charlotte over to Brandi with admonishing gestures. "Keep this kid out of that god-awful sun and heat; put a hat on her head and give her something to drink when she's finished with that. I gotta go work. Lock the door on your way out."

With that she turned back to her room, intent on grabbing a soothing shower before meandering into work, her allowance to sleep late after last night's stakeout now shot to hell over wedding plans.

Not that her dreams had been any better.

**-o-**

Half a day later – twelve full hours – and he could still feel the tingling in his fingers; palms could still recall vividly the pliable warmth of her skin beneath them. In seven years he'd not been allowed that intimate of touch willingly, and to be granted – nay, encouraged – to give in to seemingly innocent actions was perhaps not the wisest choice on his part. He could have limited himself to her foot and ankle, like most servants of that chore. But Marshall had promised Shae to give an equal treatment to Mary. Briefly he wondered if she would have said the same had her own foot rub drifted into more exploratory circumstances.

Marshall sighed deeply. Clear the mind; save his sanity. He was now, as of this moment, treating Mary like an addiction. One that had to be broken, yet still leave him able to function with constant exposure. One he'd already thought he had fought and won four months ago. Not one he had thought would slip upon him unexpectedly and taunt him when he was most susceptible. Is this what Peter and Jinx dealt with every day? Then again, he wasn't a _bar_keeper; he, Marshall, was keeper of this very elixir. One far too intoxicating.

"Goddamned oppressive heat." Ah, the street narcotic of choice had swiped through the door with an epithet or two. And with a glance at the clock, he declared her earlier than had been expected. "Wish this damn hovering storm that's not quite a storm and not quite here would actually _do _something, instead of flashing, rumbling and just… just _pretending_ to be there."

Marshall watched calmly as Mary flailed through her desk, putting up bag and pulling out folders, booting her computer… He was holding off until she had acclimated herself to the overwrought AC.

"Rather than inundate you with the why's and wherefore's on this weather system –" that earned him a glare – "suffice it to say we'll get it. Eventually. Probably another few days, maybe longer if this one dissipates before another can replace it." Still glaring. "In other words, the brown outs will continue along with the intense heat until sometime next week."

"Fan-fuckin-tastic," she grumbled, and Marshall had to smile. Even grumpy – and this she wore like a calendar cape – she was entrancing. What was it about strong willed women that warmed his heart? "Another reason to hide out in the house with police line tape across the front door, keep my relatives out. Think they'd buy it if I threw up some Radioactive Warning Labels on the doors and windows?"

Marshall frowned. He'd just told her last night she needed to get out more. That thought nudged another, and he offered an energetic invitation.

"Hey, there's a blues festival over at Hyder Park tomorrow afternoon and night. Shae and I are going after she gets off work; wanna come with?" He smiled crookedly, indulgently. Mary's face betrayed interest, regardless her efforts to blank it. He decided to up the ante.

"It's free admission, Mare. Plus, they've a barbeque contest and numerous beer vendors…" He trailed off, timbre rising in suggestion. She shrugged.

"Maybe. You foot the bill for three drinks, two entrées and a funnel cake, and we'll discuss it."

He chuckled. "That's my girl."

**-o-0-o-**

_Thoomp. Thoomp. Thoomp._

Abuse taken and accepted by her shoulders as each strike jarred cartilage and sinew left Mary feeling powerful, in control enough to take the pain and keep going. The heavy bag gave resistance and some elusive moves but she could meet it action for reaction. The fight in her mind, however, was proving the more worthy opponent.

What the fuck _was it_ with her dreams these days? Obsession over being pregnant, first (and by Marshall of all people), then on into flashbacks of Epps and Shae with a wedding band and Marshall chained to a baby – that was a sign, wasn't it? Mary thought Marshall had mentioned once something about all your concerns manifesting themselves into your dreams so you could deal with them. Huh; funny. She certainly wasn't dealing with any now.

Mary renewed her punches with increased vigor, attempting to wipe away with sweat and muscle fatigue the very strangely insightful conclusions and apprehensions. The closer they came to an inevitable permanence to Marshall's relationship with Shae, the more unease Mary felt. She couldn't place the cause, though; could no longer blame it on fear of losing her partner's friendship. Marshall had gone to every extent he could to assure her they were strong. They were permanent… themselves.

Beating the bag in the empty aerobics room finally gave way to a short, slow run on the track, iPod blaring Muse, yoga pants drenched in sweat. Then a quick, hot shower in the communal locker room, clean the only scent draping her body. By the time Mary had dressed once more in jeans and beige tank, she left in a wet ponytail with more tangents of personal thought than she'd had since she was a junior in high school. It wasn't a joyful feeling.

Unable to go home quite yet, the marshal found herself sidled up to aged oak with a straight orange juice at a moderately busy sports bar, catching Saturday mid-morning ESPN on a corner ceiling-hung television. Horse racing topped the agenda today, the Grade III Yucca Stakes taking place amidst smaller monies at Bolero Downs. She paid only vague attention until pre-race commentary began following an early Derby prep race. Camera and dissertation on each horse being brought around the track in file by a groom, making way in calm or anticipation toward the paddock to be saddled.

As each entry was discussed in highlighted blurb, an unsteady camera shot closed in on the animal and its human guide. While all this was common enough for Mary and warranted no attention from her, the focus on entry number 8 – Charlemagne's Bane – brought her to sit straighter, grip her tumbler a hair tighter. Corinne Estes was donned in the hot pink pullover vest of the number, blonde tresses pulled tight in a high ponytail. She looked wary, eyes darting about but seemingly unaware of the attention news media was currently giving her.

Mary's own eyes studied concernedly everything filmed, worried if Jackie Mason would also find his own image flashing across video nationwide. That was the last thing they needed; Jackie's face would equate a target's bull's eye on Marshall's witness, and immediate attention would be required. But as Mary watched the proceedings, the post parade, the race, and eventually the blanket presentation (Charlemagne's Bane ran second, a long-shot winning and the two favorites placing sixth and seventh, surprisingly), no hint of the former biker came to light and she breathed deeply once more.

"Never much cared for the sport."

Mary started, turning her head and attention briefly to the fine specimen now seated beside her. Bordering six foot, roughly 210 of fit, tan and muscular shoulders, mahogany eyes laughing. Dark bristles grew from head and jaw, a spattering of auburn reflecting in the catch of light against a two-day beard. She offered a small smile, murmured something polite and turned back to her drink.

"Just a bunch of running around in a circle, jockeying for position," tall, dark and sexy as hell was continuing, a light chuckle at his pun. Mary offered a noncommittal _hmm_, encouraging him. "I always thought if you're going to ride, you need to have a destination, even if it's just to wander about then head back on home at the end of the day."

When she said nothing, he ordered an iced tea, sweet, and Buffalo wings. Mary picked at the coaster beneath her drink, mind drifting into undesired waters once more. But her companion was not dissuaded, and eventually she took in his polite conversation, finally returning a word or two here and there. He was a doctor, just ending an emergency call and winding down from his day. Dr. Lane Jenkins, 41, originally from Vincennes, Indiana. Though he didn't like horse racing, he enjoyed basketball – watching and playing – was an avid Colts fan, and believed in appreciating the little joys in life.

"You have to try the wings here if you've never had them before," he was offering, gesturing to the messy plate before him. "Best I've ever had, and I've been privy to some excellent versions. Here, try one…"

Not one for many words with strangers not under her care, Mary had eventually broken down under his continuous friendliness. He was persistent, she would give him that.

"Maybe another time, Doctor…" She cut herself off from quipping on his name. She wasn't quite on her game today, and sometimes it was best just to leave matters alone. Tossing a few bills on the bar, Mary slid from the stool, making her escape to brood in her own home. Tequila was calling her name, along with her pool and a trashy romance novel Brandi had left at her house.

"Miss Mary," Lane inquired before she'd made two steps. "Would you perhaps like to get together sometime soon? I'm a fine cook; been known to whip up a meal that competes triumphantly with the fine culinary skills of Dave Thomas and brothers Richard and Maurice McDonald." Man with trivial knowledge. A grin tugged involuntarily. He was earnest, a charming smile showing the fine lines to the corners of his eyes. Objections formed in her throat: he was too nice, too sweet. Or maybe this was just his bedside manner. Following that thought, Mary briefly considered what he'd be like _in_ said bed, his knowledge of anatomy and physiology a boon to her interests.

_I worry about you… You need to get out more, meet new people, people outside of cowboys and outlaws…_ Marshall's words from last night reverberated in her head. Suddenly her mouth formed different syllables, eyes lighting up as she spoke.

"There's a concert and damn fine food tonight over at Hyder Park. Wanna go?"

_I'm trying, Marshall_, she pleaded to the universe. _Don't know for what, exactly, but I'm trying._

**-o-0-o-**

To say he was shocked would have been an understatement of epic proportions. Not that she was with someone, but that she had come at all.

Marshall let his gaze float over his partner, scrutinizing her slightly forced gaiety. She and Dr. Jenkins had arrived ten minutes earlier, spotted by Shae who immediately sent Marshall over to invite them to share the couple's picnic blanket in the shade. They were a couple hundred feet from the stage, far enough away to hold decent conversation without causing vocal injury. Introductions made, Marshall resumed his seat on the blanket only after Mary had finally quit nervous pacing and settled down, though she never lost her nervous energy. Twitchy, almost, and he could only guess at what was bothering her.

"So what discipline do you practice, Lane?" Shae was ever the communicator, drawing Lane into conversation easily with her friendly manner. She was stretched out, leaning back on elbows cushioned from the root-strewn ground by Marshall's sweatshirt.

"Obstetrics is my specialty," he replied with a grin, and Marshall's eyes darted to see Mary's reaction. Something told him she hadn't known that, else she might not have picked him up for an afternoon out. A quick trip to his place, maybe, but Mary wouldn't be able to carry on a day of visiting with someone whose area of expertise relied on one of the very things she herself frowned upon. She didn't get babies; she couldn't understand anyone's desire for them or the pregnancy beforehand. Many a time his partner had scoffed the institution of parenting. At least, in terms for herself. A man whose very career centered on such miracles would, with little doubt, want the same for himself.

This wasn't a relationship that would bear fruit, he could see that immediately.

Mary didn't disappoint. At her date's expounded words, Mary's face flew to alarm, a sharp glance at him, then Shae, then –

He wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't been watching her; would have missed the subtly had he not known her so ridiculously well.

She didn't look at him, didn't grimace or roll her eyes at the pronouncement. She – U.S. Deputy Marshal Mary Shannon, his partner, best friend and avid anti-maternal ball buster – blushed, an antsy hand fluttering to her denim-draped abdomen, protectively cupping directly over where a baby would –

Marshall's turn for alarm, his eyes jumping to her face in wide distress, only to meet her own staring at him, changing from something unreadable to panic before abruptly turning away. What the hell? Was she –

"Hey, Mare?" he asked suddenly, gaining his feet with a quick, apologetic look to their guests. "How about you and I go grab some drinks, huh?" He turned to Shae, "Lemon Shake-up?" and, at her assent, to Lane, "Beer? Coke?"

"Beer'll be fine," the good doctor answered, reaching back for his wallet.

"Nah, don't worry about it; I got it," Marshall was saying, his words fast as he continued glancing at his partner, taking her sweet time rising. "C'mon, woman; before the next act takes the stage." That she didn't bitch him out for calling her 'woman' said a lot about Mary's state of mind, and he was already mentally running down paths he'd prefer to avoid. The moment she appeared steady, he turned her away to head toward the street vendors, catching the chatter behind him as they left.

"If I could pick your brain for a moment," Shae was saying, "I'm nearly in my seventh month, and I've been having these strange, sometimes sharp pains…"

Marshall waited until they were well entrenched between rows of scattered lawn chairs and out of auditory distance from his girlfriend when he asked, eyes forward and step quick.

"Are you pregnant?" he asked, strain in his voice. Mary nearly stumbled, her stop so abrupt.

"What?" Her face reflected shock. She was genuinely scandalized. "No. No, no and hell no. God, Marshall…" Exasperated, she looked around, her posture drooping and voice lower.

"Sorry; it's just that, well…" How could he explain that he still took in every nuance of her reactions, her moods? Simple truth was, he couldn't. Truth won out, though, and Marshall picked his way through an answer.

"Lane talking about obstetrics didn't exactly push your sarcasm buttons like that sort of thing normally would; instead, you looked almost flush and, dare I say, maternally thoughtful…" He didn't elaborate on what that entailed, but Mary didn't seem to need an explanation. Rather than verbally viscerate him, she instead avoided his gaze, worried her lower lip, danced agitatedly in one spot.

"Yeah, well; had a lot on my mind lately. Too many babies in my world right now." He could swear a fresh wash of dusky rose blossomed across her cheeks, her eyes sharply taking him in then looking away. "But no; before you ask again, I'm sure I'm not pregnant." Her voice dropped as she – they – began walking again, a grumble declaring, "That would require having had sex in the last three months."

Nothing really to say to that, Marshall wisely kept his mouth shut. She wasn't the only one frustrated. After this weekend, however, she just might be. Then again, he thought, recollecting her machisimo physician date, they might both find an oasis to their self-imposed dry spells. Somehow a private smile wouldn't quite form at that thought.

They made their way in companionable silence to one of the vendor trailers, waited in line patiently. Well, as patiently as Mary Shannon ever waited. Distracted, thoughtful.

"You seem preoccupied," he finally voiced. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing."

He eyed her, tried a different approach.

"Something bothering you?" His voice must have told her it was more than a pleasantry question.

"No. Yes. Maybe. I dunno…" She sighed quietly, cast him a worried glance then studied the distant menu marquee. "Do you think I'd make a good mother?" she asked quietly.

"Where'd that come from? You sure you're not –"

"Yes, Doctor Oz," she snapped, "I'm sure. Just answer the bloody question. Wait, no; never mind. Forget it."

"No, no…" he placated, pausing for a long moment. Deciding it was a time of seriousness, he spoke carefully, thoughtfully. Conveyed that importance in tone.

"Actually, Mary, yes; I believe – I _know_ – you'd make an exceptional mother." She started to protest – he could see it in her expression – and he quickly interrupted her. "I know this, Mary, because I know you. You may think you're not the motherly kind, and I'll admit you're not the Mrs. Cleaver type, but that's not what a child needs. A child really only needs certain things in life from their mother to grow up healthy, happy, and well-adjusted.

"They need to be loved unconditionally, given shelter and sustenance, taught right from wrong, and feel and _be_ protected from the ills of the world until they can learn to fight for themselves. And though you might not have received much of that growing up, you have all of those qualities in spades, Mary. The important stuff. So yeah," he followed up softly, "I think you'd make an amazing mother."

"Thanks." The single word fell gently, reflectively.

They'd reached the ordering window, and Marshall began with nachos for Shae and an Italian sausage for himself, three beers and a lemon shake-up. Mary corrected it to four beers. He said nothing, but when she paid for everything without even a word, he knew something was wrong. Gathering their refreshments, Marshall followed Mary's lead. Apparently she had a desire to check out the stage as the crew set up for the next act.

"So… what brought all this on?" he ventured cautiously. She was relishing one of the three beers in hand, following the movements on the three-foot high canopied stage. "You thinking about…"

He needed not finish the thought; she knew what he meant.

"No. Not… exactly."

The pensiveness jarred him oddly. He waited as Job, willing to say nothing until she was ready.

Finally, "I've been… oh, this fucking stupid…"

"No, it's not; tell me. I'm your best friend, Mary; I won't laugh."

"It's not you laughing I'm afraid of," she mumbled, seeming abashed. "Okay… I've… I've been having these, uh, dreams lately…"

"Okay. Go on," he encouraged. She took a couple of breaths, then did so.

"I've been dreaming I had a child. Nothing in particular, mind you. Just that there was one. Probably just something that's burrowed its way from my subconscious to waking thoughts, I guess."

"How long have you been having these dreams?" Intriguing thought, Marshall considered. Mary's dreams. Other than the vastly abstract ones involving giant pink bunnies or lurid ones he'd prefer not to be regailed with, Mary had never shared her _interesting _dreams with him before.

She was biting her lower lip again, now fascinated by the white PVC gating up between them and the stage. "A few months now."

Surprise lit his face. He couldn't help it. That was unusual, and in Mary's case, rather remarkable. "Okay…. Is it the same dream every time?"

"No, not exactly. Sometimes I'm still pregnant, sometimes there's a baby already born. Most of the time, though, it's the former."

"All right…" Marshall thought for a moment, psychology courses lecturing through his head. Personal interest won out first, however. "Is there a father involved?"

"No." She answered far too quickly, too emphatically, telling him she was lying. Still not meeting his eyes. Marshall thought back a few months, trying to recall if she had been seeing someone – even just a cowboy ride – who might have triggered these nightly visions. He speared her with a look she had to notice, even from the corner of her vision. She caved.

"All right, yes. Same father. Every time. I don't see what difference this makes."

"I don't know. Could signify nothing, but I'm trying to help you figure out the possible meaning of it all. You know… reoccurring dreams can be a sign of an underlying issue, some sort of emotional trauma or life-altering concern your mind is attempting to deal with –"

"It's just a dream, Dr. Phil." She was agitated now, restless. "Doesn't mean anything other than I'm inundated with babies and pregnancy all the hell around me."

"Okay, okay," he placated. Took a breath and tried for casual. "So… just out of curiosity, who's the chosen father in this nightly drama? Anyone I know?"

"Um… maybe," she responded evasively. "You might have met him once or twice."

His brows rose slightly in cajoling question. Mary took a long pull from her beer. Looked away, studied the sound tech EQing the monitors. Marshall cleared his throat to nudge her. Was rewarded with a mumble.

"Hmm?" he inquired.

"Damn it, Marshall; it's just a mother-humping dream! Doesn't mean a damn thing; sorry I even brought it up."

Truly ruffled now, embarrassed. He watched her, again running faces and names and incidents through his head of the last few months. He'd been dating Shae for nearly four, so he'd not been in Mary's personal sphere quite as much. He thought back to any mention or preoccupation with children or pregnancy, any moment she might have vocalized any consideration she might have had regarding parenting a child with someone. He was drawing a blank; the only notice he'd taken to any baby talk with her recently had been in reference to Shae, which was understandable given circumstances.

Then something started nagging him at the back of his mind. Yes, yes… Mary had said something about herself, something about her daughter, something about –

Marshall's brows shot to his hairline as he recalled suddenly an almost inconspicuous incident not four weeks back. A remark said in waspish nature, Mary's usual bitchiness over a troubling witness masking the actual words' meaning, though he had taken brief notice, even then.

_Their daughter_.

He was the baby's father in her dreams. The realization, the connection sent Marshall's heart hammering in staccato. Lightheaded, he eyed her directly, but she failed to face him.

State his supposition, or let it lie? Though an overwhelming urge ran through him at the desperate curiosity – how'd she feel about that thought? How'd she see them as a family? Had she, in these dreams, _wanted_ to bear his child, or had it been forced upon her in some way? – he knew it was the wrong approach to take. Maybe give her some time, let himself ponder any implications… not that it mattered, he reminded himself. Not in the long run. Merely a quenching of passing academic interest. He was with Shae now, and Mary didn't feel that way about him. And… he was with Shae.

"Come on; I stand here much longer I'll drink Lane's, too." She'd already finished her first, had deposited the bottle in a recycle bin, and was part way through her second. With a toss of head in defiance of some inner turmoil, Mary turned back in the direction of their blanket, Marshall trailing behind, trying desperately to clear his mind of these new images. A revisit to ones he'd obsessed over through the years, had dallied with in the office not so long ago when Mary had talked of such things under her breath.

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly, the two couples enjoying atmosphere, music, chatter. It wasn't until after dark when Marshall was returning from the Men's when he saw what jarred him back to reality: a dozen yards back from their blanket, Lane and Mary had found the privacy of large oak tree. Backlit by distant security lights, the shadowy silhouettes seared vividly. Mary's back to the bark, the doctor leaning in for kisses heavy with want and intent, limbs promising resolution this night.

She'd been right when she'd said it the first time: it really had been just a dream.


	18. Ch 18: Fate: She is a Fickle Creature

**Disclaimer****: **Really? Need I repeat myself?

**Author's Note:** Beware: here be significant plot disruptions, sight not always seen. Ye have been warned.

And I know everyone is antsy for M&M to get together; one step at a time, dear readers. Mary has to figure out one small detail before that, then there are complications in the way. But that journey is short, and it all starts to combust: _here_.

Thanks, E; Wawa corrected. ;~) Been too many years since I've been in South Jersey.

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so _**please**_ take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts! And if you sign in, I can reply to your review.

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 18: Fate: She is a Fickle Creature**

Pumpkin scones may fall best in an autumn category of breakfast delights, but warm with drizzled glaze and hot sweet and creamy tea made for a welcoming morning. Even on a late August morning, temperature already edging uncomfortable, the sun just greeting the sleepy little town of Albuquerque.

Marshall leaned back appreciatively, the skyline view from his private rooftop patio calming in its unrushed manner. His beautiful girlfriend sat across the wrought-iron bistro table from him, picking attentively at her own blueberry version, glass of cold skim milk nearly empty beside it. He took in her glowing features – yes, glowing – though a bit paler than he'd like. She had spent too many late nights slaving over her latest paper, and Marshall was glad to see it put to bed as of last night. Now, and for a few more weeks, she could concentrate more on herself. And he would help her do just that.

Taking a sip of tea, he let his focus fuzz about the edges, a moment to see her in a time hence. Yes. Yes, he could get used to this. Shae, a family, quiet Sunday mornings of leisure and playful philosophical debates. He could envision this life. And for once, it didn't hurt. He smiled at the thought. Life was good.

Shae peered up from her casual scraping of the glaze left on her plate, only to catch his studying eyes and grant him a slow, amused grin.

"And just what are you staring at, Mr. Mann?"

"A very beautiful, enchanting woman," he replied lightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Shae's voice thrummed with humor.

"_Mmm_, mmm… My, my… sugar wouldn't melt in your mouth, it's already so sweet." She chuckled, giving him a glancing once-over and coy wink. Marshall's eyes widened in amused flirtation.

"My mouth has talents that would make you go weak at the knees." When he wanted to, Marshall Mann could match any macho movie star for a bedroom voice. Shae obviously agreed. The blush now encroaching her freckles was hidden as she ducked her head, now rather fascinated by the last of her milk.

Marshall smiled to himself, both pleased at her reaction, and relieved at the subtle tensing of anticipation now hovering in the air. It had become a natural progression, finally, his mind unburdened by a fickle, haunting conscience. Easy now; wanting.

"What do you say to taking a little vacation over Labor Day weekend?" he was asking before it even registered in his mind. Once said, he knew it an ideal plan. Shae's head popped up in question.

"I've got some vacation time, you'll be off from school…" he elaborated, mental images taking focus, connecting. Further he spoke, more excited he planned. "It would be good for us to get out of the city for a bit. Maybe a nice B&B, do some sightseeing. Anywhere you want to go, though preferably close enough to drive; I'd rather you not fly right now."

Her head cocked slightly to one side, lips parted, though in thought or surprise he wasn't sure. But then she spoke, soft Georgian syllables in a drawn, laid-back tempo.

"Marshall Mann, I'd follow you into a Yankee's dugout if it meant having you all to myself for even just a little while." Eyes sparkled. "Don't matter what pew you sit in at church, as long as you're lickin' your fingers after service." His eyes flew to saucers. She chuckled.

"Southern Baptists; potluck after the sermon, darlin'."

They tossed ideal locations back and forth before Shae resigned to the calls of her bladder, stating she'd go ahead and get a shower so she would have time before her made-for-television movies would be coming on. A lazy Sunday spent in company and surroundings she wouldn't trade for any trip in the world.

Marshall cleared their dishes, following Shae through the bedroom. She turned to the master bath as he continued through to the kitchen, a smirk holding fort over his features at her sassy walk she'd displayed just for his benefit. His girlfriend was getting rather bold, lately, and he couldn't help but wonder if it was a matter of how comfortable she was with him now, or hormones banishing that slight shy quality she'd had when they'd first met. So much to learn about this woman who'd become a growing affection in his heart.

"_Marshall?_" Reverberation indicated she was calling from the bathroom door, and he slipped into his room in time for Shae to nearly run into him. Quickly assured she was all right, she explained her sudden need.

"My hair's all tangled in my necklace; would you detach the two, please?" she quipped, turning her back to him, hair gathered up in one hand.

Indeed it was a mess, and took Marshall a full two minutes to gently unwrap or break the locks from the chain. Vision kept darting from task, appreciating the curve of her bare neck. Such a minor thing, he knew, but there was something about the vulnerability of her like this, head leaning to one side, lengthening the expanse of pale skin over soften angles. He let the delicate jewelry fall once cleared, and instead of moving away, gave into the draw of sliding his arms, hands, about her side… waist… encompassing the rounded abdomen with a contented sigh. Pulled her back to him. Hands large and calloused rubbed lightly over this gift, and he closed his eyes, put his chin to Shae's head and smiled.

Light moan of pleasure escaped her though, and he couldn't help but chuckle. But then she shifted, and he stood straight, allowing her to drift around in his arms to face him. Gazes met in softness first, then Shae slid her palms up his chest, clasping about his neck with one, into short tresses only to grab and pull him down for a kiss.

Sweet. Generous. The kiss held such elicitations, calming Marshall's mind, allowing the feel to become focal. She felt good, this feisty young woman plush against his chest. Warm, willing…

It was that latter point that seemed to make all the difference, the one descriptor that was perhaps the greatest difference between what he'd hungered and pined after for years, and what he generously was given before him. And somewhere in the back of his thoughts as tongues met in light dalliance and a small, delicate hand cupped his unshaven cheek, Marshall realized the great significance of that one adjective… verb… trait.

Heat suffused within him, and deep within in his mind a relieving resignation broke loose. The decision to let everything he'd held so dear to him go: his hopes and dreams and desires for his partner. It was time to grow up, to accept the truth, and release what he could never have. Time to live up to, invite in, what he _could_. That distinct, loaded switch that, once flipped, could not be undone.

And he fully gave into Shae's kisses. Closed his eyes and dove into the abyss, not seeing anything, not _thinking_ anymore. Just allowing himself to react to her, to give to her as she deserved. As _he_ deserved. She was desirable, accepting, wanting… wanting _him_, and he relished the feel. Of it, of her, of them.

In that breaking instant, Marshall's answering kisses fell heavier, faster, hungrier. Shae responded after a moment's pause, her delay, he was sure, out of surprise. But he allowed the rush of this new acceptance invade him, releasing him from bonds held far too long. Hands skimmed down her sides, encountered the heavy belly and caressed in both affection of the child inside, and in attraction to the soft femininity before him.

Shae's hands did not remain idle, either, and with only a gasping break for the material pass, she managed to pull his navy blue tee shirt off without disruption. As Marshall left her lips for slender jaw line… delicate column of neck… exposed shoulder… he was dimly aware the clink of his belt buckle, the silent pop of his jeans' button. And all he could do was _anticipate_, even as he found his knees, lips now paying tribute to taut, rounded flesh as his long fingers pulled away the gauzy sage top. Awed.

Her hands massaging through his hair, his own framing this revered location before gliding back down inches to her hips… dropping further, along tight thighs…

Pulse high and fast and thrumming through his ears, and Marshall welcomed it all, each sensation that reminded him he was alive, thoroughly male, and at the moment so completely _wanted_. Breathing growing ragged and loud to his own ears, it took several long seconds before he realized the sounds were not of his own making.

His cell was ringing.

Both stilled. Marshall trying to compose himself, honestly debating if he would answer it or not – that's how far gone he was. Man does not simply turn his back on an oasis after months in the dry desert, just because an ingrained command was sounded.

Reluctantly, he rose to his bare feet, sparing the briefest attention to Shae, hating to see the pained expression on her face. Making his way to his dresser, he picked up the phone and scanned the caller ID. Gave a heavy sigh. Had it been _anyone_ else...

But this he had to take.

"Yeah, Stan," he answered, hazy and bleary and fuzzy of mind and sight. Head dipped in concentration with a flashing glance to his disheveled girlfriend. She'd not moved, but was watching him intently. Slightly perturbed – could he blame her? – but regrettably understanding.

He turned his back to her, pacing a few steps as explanation and briefing flowed through the airwaves. Shouldered phone while he re-situated his jeans. His own words soft, succinct. Once more he stopped, turned to face her, his own features apologetic as he ran a free hand in a scrub over yesterday's stubble. Frustrated, weary… accepting. Once more a deep breath, little more than mumbling, "Be there in twelve."

Shae's eyes understood, shuttered closed before he could see the disappointment. He knew it was there, though, mirroring his own.

Ending the call, Marshall set the cell down, retrieved and re-donned his tee. As he scattered about, reclaiming badge, socks, boots, pistols, keys, he spoke.

"Something's come up…"

"I gathered that," she responded, touch of sarcasm to hide the deeper thoughts. When he caught her look with his own, one immensely apologetic, she colored, looked down. "I'm sorry; didn't mean to sound like a petulant child. I understand. Really, I do," she added before his objection could be voiced.

"It's your job, Marshall. And it's important. I just wish it had better timing." Half chuckle on the last word told him she was fine, would be fine, and it was just another fateful bump in their road.

"Listen, Shae," he said gently, an easy grasp on her shoulders, head tucked to encourage her own chin to rise, meet his gaze. "I meant what I said earlier; Labor Day weekend, a cozy little getaway, just the two of us…" Her answering smile was weak. He tried again.

"Tell you what," he began, turning her by the shoulders and walking her out of the bedroom into the expanse of mid-morning sun reflecting into the living room. He led her to the papasan, nudged her to sit down, and handed her the remote from the coffee table.

"You get all relaxed and rested, put your feet up…" He snagged a couch pillow and put her feet upon it atop the table. "Watch your movies, and I'll get back home as soon as I can." She nodded dutifully, studying distractedly at the implement of technology in her fingers.

"And then," he added meaningfully, "we can pick up right…where… we left… off." Her brows rose and the smile pulling at her face was genuine as she peered up at him. Met his own devilish grin. "Sound good?"

"Cat got ass?" she quipped.

He snorted. "I'll take that as a 'yes.'" With murmured words of return, Marshall bent to kiss her head, and before he could think too much on it, left the loft for duty. He missed the longing he left behind, her weary breath as she shifted, trying to get into actual comfortable positions to ease the twitchy pains. He didn't witness the thoughtful ambience she held before flicking on the flatscreen and finding her station. Nor was he blessed with the almost cute baleful glare she gave the t.v. when opening credits were interrupted by breaking local news.

But had he been there, the proverbial fly on the wall, Marshall would have heard the elongated sigh that matched the faraway vision, the caramel drawl of, "God, I love that man."

**-o-**

"I wouldn't have called you if it hadn't gone so fucking far south so damn quickly." Stan ran his hand over stressfully over his face, head, sighed irritably. He looked tired, his voice mimicking the strain he'd been under the last two and a half hours. Marshall watched him critically, trying to read what his chief wasn't telling him.

"Mary…?" His own voice betrayed the underlying doubt and fear he felt, an immediate image borne to mind that left his gut clenched and ill. Stan eased his worry.

"She's embedded over by the neighbor's half-wall," he said, gesturing vaguely off to his left. Marshall felt relief breathe through him. Free of one stressor, he took in the scene around him now, deducing and calculating and gathering his questions logically.

The residential street had been blocked off, locals evacuated or instructed to remain indoors with entrances locked and away from all outside exposure. Law enforcement varying in color coded uniform and cornucopia of letters, all strategically placed and wary and watchful. Low, quiet anxiety underlying tense, trained professionalism, eyes reverting to regularly skim the unassuming townhouse.

"So what happened?" he asked finally, still scanning for his partner. Distractedly he donned the Kevlar vest he'd picked up from a local on his way into the perimeter, blacking out most of his tee. Set his phone to vibrate.

"Bernalillo County SO went to serve a warrant on James Joseph Hamilton. Convicted meth trafficker, domestic 4th, assault 1st… Got an FTA on several counts, a couple parole violations, and as of last week suspicion of fucking with his girlfriend's 8-year-old daughter."

"_Je-sus_," Marshall hissed. A new tension vibrated through him. Stan continued with a nod of agreement.

"Yeah. Gets better, though. Two deputies came in to serve the warrant at daybreak, one marshal to assist. They weren't expecting the girlfriend to have gone back to him – kids in tow." Stan pulled at the collar of his own tee, the faded Extreme Sports logo overrun by his own black vest. Though only mid morning, the heat was already liquefying the air. Rare this humidity, and coupling with ten days of stifling oppression, the men found themselves already slick with fine layers of perspiration. The circumstances only added to discomfort.

"Hamilton was tipped off, though," he went on. "Unclear as to who or how. So… we've got two kids and a gullible woman hostage, a hardass barricaded and armed, a marshal and sheriff's deputy with two slugs each. Deputy's looking to be okay; marshal, not sure yet. SO requested local back up, Marshals Service when they couldn't talk him down after an hour and more shots were fired." Stan paused, rubbing his eyes wearily.

"Didn't plan to call you in, but…" He shrugged, a silent expression of trust and faith, explaining the job had to be done right, and right now. He wanted his most seasoned in on this to wrap it up before someone else got hurt.

"But this needs to be ended immediately," Marshall finished for him, agreement in his tone. Noticing a familiar face in olive atop a nearby roof, he turned back to Stan. "When'd NMSP get here?"

Stan's attention swiveled to the sniper, catching Marshall's train of thought. "About ten minutes ago. Brought their own negotiator. A change for the best, I'm thinking."

The men stood in silence, each in their own head, weighing strategies and outcomes. Stan propped his left foot on the door of the unmarked gray Crown Vic they stood behind, pulling out his .38 to recheck – again – before re-holstering the revolver. Fiddled with his earpiece. Neither was comfortable with the situation.

Stan finally gave a heavy sigh, waved over a local with a request for communication for Marshall. While they waited, he looked to his senior inspector, and Marshall held his breath.

"Looks like State's taking over this show," he said lowly, finger to his ear in response to the air traffic obviously coming in. "I'm going to get with the LT in charge. I want you to slip over to your partner and hold position until I tell you two the game plan." He paused as the promised earpiece was brought to Marshall, and subordinate set the device with apprehension. He still hadn't spotted Mary, only knew her position by Stan's directions.

"Got it, Chief."

"Take the path around the outside of the neighbor's house; local media's already set up shop on the eastern side; don't want you two caught on camera."

"By your command," he answered flippantly, attempting a casualness he most certainly did not feel. It made him edgy not having Mary in sight. With but a nod apiece, Marshall pulled his sidearm and rounded Stan and the vehicle, skirting the distant house into the backyard, pausing every few yards to evaluate. It felt like hours rather than minutes by the time he slipped through the browning grass backyard. Pausing at the adobe house's corner, he peered cautiously at the low property line cinderblock fence. No Mary.

Unsettled but reasoning, Marshall edged around the corner –

Only to meet the muzzle of a matching Glock, stance a mirror image of his own. Both marshals let out slow breaths, lowering their weapons.

"_Fuck_," Mary snipped in a stage whisper. "A little notice it was you would have been appreciated."

"Stan's working on comm.," Marshall rejoined, following her in a crouched jog to drop against the fence. He took in his partner's disheveled appearance, concluding she'd been pulled out of bed for this. Haphazard ponytail and that same damn faded Verve Pipe tee she'd worn that night in the office, a night she'd captivated him, destroyed him. He shook the memory off, focusing on the moment. Only by her residential closeness had she made it here and in place well before his arrival. Not enough time to have gotten herself into trouble with him not at hand to keep her reined in.

He didn't want to ponder why she'd still been abed.

They waited in companionable silence, ever alert while listening solemnly to radio chatter. Hours passed, the pair taking turns relaying deeper down the backyard, the fence staggered in growing height further down. They had to stretch their legs, keep circulation, work out encroaching stiffness. Sweat damped every article of clothing between the two, the vests trapping heat and moisture, adding to their discomfort.

Plans were made over the radio, carried out and reported upon minutes later. This pattern repeated many times, each incident ending with their subject's change in housing location or psychological condition. He was unstable, unpredictable, and this made him all the more dangerous. Marshall and Mary waited, alternately patiently and not, shifting their weight with delicate, careful moves. Preparing for action.

It didn't come.

Marshall rubbed his strained eyes with the heel of his left hand, stretching and rotating his neck in an effort to remain loose. Sweat trickled down his back, gathered at the nape of his neck, just below the hairline. Skin grew gritty with residue salt.

"How'd _your _evening go?" he asked lowly, back to watching the house. Monotony was a dangerous condition. Mary adjusted to one knee, visually sweeping their surroundings while he kept track of the target.

"You mean aside from the particularly inconsiderate timing of a bunch of damned impregnated wenches?" she bit, the grumble lacking energy. Darted a sideways look to him. "Sorry. Nothing against those wanting to bear proverbial fruit, as long they don't conceive to go into labor right when I'm trying to get other medical needs met."

Marshall let go the play on words, ignored the snippishness on pregnancy, and zeroed in on implications of what _didn't_ happen rather than what _did_. Definitely refused to dwell on the fleeting delight in this knowledge.

"I take it Lane's time and efforts were redirected to bringing new life into this wild, wild world, instead of going through the motions of creating one?" He drawled this, keeping tone level though the image that came to mind was reminiscent of their conversation yesterday at the park. Mary. Pregnant.

Except then it had been _him_ who was the father. Twenty-four hours later, his view on that was altered. Now it was merely… curious. He let his mind drift to a future child of his own, a sibling to one he would soon accept as such. A tug to his lips, the vision sweet, enticing.

"Damn pager. Looks like tonight is shot all to hell, too," she added, waving an encompassing hand. "Lane's apparently on some sort of extra rotation at the free clinic ER, covering for someone. I thought private practice meant private time… apparently I have to pick up Mr. Unselfish, Heal the Poor Brother Theresa."

Marshall snorted. Mary's denial of sexual satisfaction bode ill for anyone in her line of fire, but he feared not her sharp tongue nor short temper.

"Your soul should feel warmed at the choice, even if your libido is chilled at this revelation," he mused philosophically. She growled. "If it makes you feel any less singled out, you're not the only one gypped out of a little physical gratification."

His partner made a strangled noise, followed by some whispered variation of '_Ewwww…_'

"Thank you for that image, Brother Marshall. The good little Altar Boy sneaking a _Playboy_ in the back room with a box of Kleenex and travel-sized Jerkens is not what I would constitute the same playing field."

Baleful glare went uncommented on by her, but he knew she saw it. Comedy initially came to his lips, but something stopped him. Unbidden, the alternate discourse came out before he could stop it.

"I grant you, Mary Shannon, that though I may be a man attuned to the finer subtleties of human emotion and interaction, by no means am I a _good little Alter Boy_, as you so kindly attribute me." An affronted affectation took root, surprising even himself. Tight. Succinct. "There are times for playfulness, times for gentle exploration… times for making love. Then, my unlearned friend, there are occasions made strictly for unadulterated _fucking_. I'm well versed in all of the above."

Whatever she would have smacked back was derailed by voices over the radio. Mood darkened as new intel came through, negotiations faltering, suspect growing agitated. Stifled with no air conditioning, further reckless with some chemical variable. Marshall ran scenarios briefly through his head, debating the probability of alcoholic factors versus methamphetamine. Neither case was appealing.

Their awareness shifted abruptly from those calling the shots when the back door they had direct sight of bounced open, the screened frame caught with its heavy spring. Swearing floated out on air currents, carrying with it threats and promises and a child's whimpering cry of dread. The marshals tensed immediately.

Nothing happened. Several minutes passed, hypersensitivity kicking in. Marshall shared a look with Mary. She was getting antsy. Not that he could admit to much better, himself. That little girl's high pitched, plaintive "_Noooo!_" shook them both. Aware the history, that one verbiage was foreboding in the extreme. Marshall's eyes shot back to Mary after scanning the now-still house. She'd paled.

He could see her thought process as though blueprinted before his eyes, and already he was shaking his head against her knee-jerk reactions.

"No, Mary…" he warned, watching her body tense to an unending quiver. She faced him, determination hardening her features. Jaw tight, her rough voice clipped in restrained emotion.

"This fuckwad can't be allowed to touch her again, Marshall," she ground out, already turning back and easing along the fence, seeking the opportune location to break cover. "I won't allow it."

"Mary," he reiterated, keeping step in order to physically detain her if necessary. This was going to flip upside down in twenty seconds if he didn't rein her in. "It's not our call; we don't know all of what the hell's going on out front, and we sure as hell don't know what's actually going on _inside_. To rush in now is rookie reckless and can get us all killed," he hissed.

At that very moment, Marshall could see Mary was no longer a trained U.S. Marshal; she was a little girl left on her own to fend off the perverts and predators of the seedy world, from herself and her baby sister. Only this time she was big enough and mean enough to do it. He understood her vicious, desperate anger and need to protect, but she wasn't thinking straight, and that would endanger them all.

Just then a howl breached the reinforced walls, far too apparent that it belonged to an utterly terrified 8-year-old girl. Mary was over the low wall and striking hell bent for leather for the back door, weapon drawn, avenging angel in Kevlar.

"_Goddamnit_, Mary," Marshall swore, just as he bounded over crumbling cinder blocks, ground-eating strides following his partner into the Gates of Hell.

**-o-**

Forty-seven minutes.

Forty-seven minutes had passed since his partner had lost all good sense and transformed into a she-devil of the Joan of Arc variety. Since a hard entry had luckily – for her career's sake – coincided with unprovoked gunplay out front. The official report would state they'd left cover and entered through the rear entrance _after_ shots were fired, _after_ the state police had issued an _All Go!_ over the communications pieces when everything broke down and chaotic battle ensued.

Forty-seven minutes since Marshall had been nicked in the left tricep by a .44 bullet from a crazed fugitive high on dope who'd rather go out in a blaze of infamous glory than face honest justice in the court system. The gash required four stitches, refusing to properly coagulate on its own.

"This is exactly why the locals don't want to work with us," he said lowly, minding the ears that passed by the back of the ambulance on which he and Mary both now sat. He watched carefully participants and authorities purposely stride through the crime scene. His EMS technician had scampered off to assist a more pressing matter, dictating to Marshall to remain until he returned. He wasn't finished dressing the wound.

"You not only took it upon yourself to take unplanned action, but," he hurried in, cutting off the objection forming on her lips, "you didn't call in to forewarn them. They tend to take issue with lack of information and communication."

She scowled at him, eyes burning. A few minor abrasions on her knuckles and hands from the door, from brief confrontation of the physical nature with the subject. But she wouldn't leave the bus, wouldn't walk away from her partner, no matter how minor the injury. No matter how exposed the nerve.

"What would you have proposed I'd done, Marshall? Let him rape that girl just so you could make a phone call?" she asked, just as low, just as calmly annoyed. Prickly, as opposed to his simple annoyance. He wasn't angry, per se, understood just as she the situation warranted action. But she'd shed all responsible decision making by charging in full blast, not giving a moment for a heads' up to the rest of the team. It had been unwise, unsafe. It could have ended in disaster.

"Mary," he went on, diffusing her temper with well-known logic. "Though I agree the turn of events necessitated direct response, you and I both know there was time to call in our intentions, even as we were on the move. No one was in any greater imminent danger at that point than in the preceding minutes. You took a wild chance that thank God paid off, covered in the coincidental mental break of Hamilton."

For a moment she said nothing, eyes following activity all around, though blindly. He knew she knew he was right. But he granted her one thing, knowing it would be enough to ease her conscience over his newest addition of duty-acquired scars.

"You made a good call," he said softly, allowing his voice to convey the respect he felt for her bravery and intuition. "You just need to learn the difference between rushing to the rescue in time, and recklessly rushing headlong into a smoke-infused minefield. You took an immense chance, and thankfully it paid off this time. But Mare…"

His words fell to a heartfelt whisper. "Next time we might not be so lucky."

A brusque nod stated she heard, understood his words. Then she slipped off the ambulance floor to her feet, Marshall's tech nearly to them. With only a furrowed brow of stubborn and a tone of confidence, she handed back to him six words, two of which his own creation.

"But it was a good call."

She strode off to meet Stan, the senior marshal finally pulling away from brass discussions to begin debriefing his own people.

Marshall sighed. "That it was," he murmured.

**-o-**

In the minutes before he left the scene for the office, Marshall managed a quick text to Shae, telling her that work was taking longer than expected and to not wait dinner on him. He'd see her hopefully within a few hours, would text or call again if it was going to be much later. He didn't hear back.

Debriefing and paperwork and evidence of their personal doing took right on to nearly three and a half hours. Re-hydration and a sugar rush helped ease the work along.

NMSP sent a supervisor over to the USMS field office, and all three inspectors met there for their interviews. Marshall desperately needed a shower after the sweatbox the outer world had become, but debated the pros and cons of going home looking like something the cat dragged in, or fielding possible questions as to why he'd changed clothes, was obviously freshly showered, and even later that planned. Cleanliness won out.

He returned to the Sunshine Building, toting his go bag in with promising visions of a hot, refreshing shower. Another text to his girlfriend, apologizing but admitting he'd be a bit longer. This didn't bode well for his resuming their morning activities, and Marshall couldn't help but feel cheated by the fickleness of ill-planned warrants and scum of the earth criminals. He'd have to bring home an appeasing gift to weigh the odds in his favor.

Taking care to keep his dressing dry, another twenty-five minutes flew by in returning some semblance of humanity to his being. It was amazing what good humor could be restored with a simple divesting of the day's dirt. Another thirty-seven flowed by with a shared cold beer in the conference room, he and Mary once more on good terms, Stan filling them in on what had been going on out front while they'd hunkered down in the trenches for hours.

It was nearing 8:30 by the time Marshall cleared the elevator, weary in body but hopeful in mind. He had no intention of even suggesting what his day had entailed, opting to go with a simple 'official business emergency came up.' She knew his hours could be unpredictable; he internally pleaded that the unexpected delay in returning home hadn't tested her very patience. Not tonight of all nights. Not after the glorious promise the morning had made.

Go bag on his shoulder – he'd need to launder the day's garments and refresh his stash – and sprigs of baby's breath and lavender in his hand, he unlocked and pulled back the loft door, only to be met with sight that stayed with him for days to come.

Shae had met him at the door, woolen blanket wrapped about her shoulders, draping her whole body in shapeless form. She looked strangely small, fragile. But it was her face that would echo in his mind's eye: pale, drawn, red-eyed, tear-streaked… and utterly heartbroken.


	19. Ch 19: To Kneel at Altar of Piety, Drunk

**Disclaimer****: **Don't even have a lease on IPS, much less ownership. I could make payments, however…

**Author's Note:** Wow. Don't think I've ever seen so many story alerts subscribed to between chapters. Thank you! Now, if I could only get you guys to _review_ as prolifically…

Pivotal chapter. I think you'll know when you get there. Difficult one to write, too. Long; little dialogue.

Thank you, **Bujyo**, for bouncing characterology with me. I hope I've done them justice.

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. I so very much love to hear from readers, so _**please**_ take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts! You know, it's the only way you get to weigh in with **your opinions**…. :~)

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 19: To Kneel at the Altar of Piety, Drunk**

The deceptive breeze ruffled through his hair, lifting and sorting, dropping it back down to hang petulantly in his eyes. He didn't care. Ran a finger's pad distractedly around the lip of the Jameson bottle. The small circle was dry; had been since his last sip 38 minutes ago. Getting drunk wasn't appealing, held no affection for him tonight. So he sat there on the slatted swing, dangling a barefoot leg over to prompt occasional movement, left the other flat footed and bent alongside the back. Stared unseeingly over the sunset-bathed rooftops of his home city.

In the last six months he'd spent far too much time alone in his rooftop garden, always peering out to the distant shadows, the mountains beyond, somehow praying a different world for him existed out there. Marshall was tired of praying. Tired of hoping for things, expecting the best and working diligently toward it, only to fall short. Tired of Fate laughing at him. Had She no one else better to torture?

He tapped the neck of the bottle against his inner thigh in rhythm to the lazy swinging motions. The whiskey had become little more than a prop. He had range in the morning, needed to be clear headed without a headache spawned from drink. Even if his quals weren't the next day… it just wasn't doing it for him tonight. Too much to think on. To brood on. And he was doing that pretty damn well on his own.

Muted tones alerted him, and Marshall shifted to dig the cell from his front pocket. Talking to someone wasn't in his plans. Anyone who would call him now wasn't someone he wanted to talk to. Anyone he needed to talk to… wouldn't. Last night was all that was on his mind, replaying with the innate drive for something to have been said or done differently.

He'd held Shae for hours, her tear-filled revelations tearing at him. His words of comfort and reassurance worthless in the grand scheme of things.

Checking the text, Marshall found a small, transient smile. Mary.

_**Hey Altar Boy. If the little woman ain't got you trussed up tonight, want to grab a Miss. Mud and head over? Your treat. Got a 12 pack.**_

Half-chuckle escaped, energy too waning for an actual laugh. Pie often made everything better, but he didn't think tonight fell in that category. He looked over the message, curious she took the time to spell everything out except Mississippi. Took her time, then.

Marshall appreciated the thought, really, but knew he couldn't rein in the morose of his mood tonight, couldn't keep up the pretense of the day. Just didn't have it in him; too tired to bother. But he couldn't tell her that. It wasn't her fault, these last 24 hours.

Mary meant well. It was one of those things she did least expected, one of the those aspects about her she hid beneath sharp tongue, but was a worthy treasure to those few privileged to bear witness. He could testify forever and a day. If he confessed his emotional state right now, even simply said he needed to think, to be alone, she would insist on getting out of him the very dregs of the cause. Not something he desired to share tonight.

But he couldn't, wouldn't lie to her, either.

Pondering a moment to word his text right, he was forestalled by a second alert. Obviously, Mary being Mary, there was no such thing as patience for an answer.

_**You were awfully quiet today. What's in that mind of yours (besides Random House)?**_

This time the chuckle made it all the way through, abbreviated though it may be. She was trying for light-hearted, but he read through the plays of both messages and saw her serious concern. He'd not been as adept at hiding today as he'd thought.

Toes and ball of foot skimmed the sods of grass he grew with effort in this section. Marshall relished the texture, a tickle to toughened skin. Refreshing. He allowed the foot to release its flex, catch on the turf, push him back to set the swing in motion.

Thoughts escaped him. Marshall knew he needed to get himself together, if only to make it through tomorrow. All else failed, he could cash in some comp time from a special assignment he did after New Year's. But only _after_ quals.

Peering down, he carefully edited, sending before his mind flipped sides.

_**National Reflection Day. Obviously you didn't get the memo. Have more to reflect on. Save the beer for another night; goes better with wings, anyway.**_

Okay, so he _did_ lie to her, but only about the holiday. It would be enough, however, to ease her mind, cause her to crack a smile, call him some unflattering name, and believe it just enough to accept and go on. Believe him all right. Even if he was anything but.

Another sip. The Jameson burned holy hell on its way down.

**-o-0-o-**

_What a fucked up, grueling day_. Mary took comfort only in that she wouldn't be tossing away her entire career with the justifiable homicide of Edy and Roger Canton, perhaps the most obnoxious pair of witnesses she had never had in her care.

They were Marshall's.

But he wasn't working today. Oh, no; not Marshall. At least, not tending his flock. This very fact scraped lemon juice and salt both over the bleeding abrasions she already had from 114-degree Fahrenheit heat index and remnants of a 5-alarm hangover. No time for lunch, with only crappy, mediocre coffee to stave off hunger pains all day. Pissy call from her mortgage company, with ensuing vitriol, disputing Mary's last three payments. And then the Cantons. With their talent for over-dramatizing even the simplest of spats.

But Mary could be grateful in that she wouldn't lose her badge over murdering these two; that would require having a free hand in order to reach either of her weapons.

"Shut the hell up – _both_ of you!"

Her command was drowned in the venom flooding the entire front yard of the Canton's Nob Hill residence. Neighbors arriving home after a nine-to-five were staring. Of course, it was hard not to do so when Edy was violently wielding a hand trowel, threatening at the top of her petite lungs. Husband Roger was little better in civility, meeting each vicious declaration with an upped ante, louder voice and pointed jabs with hedge clippers. Mary grit her teeth and took a deep stride to step between the two. She was facing Edy, she thought, unsure due to mass amounts of foliage between them. Still wrapped about her limbs was the huge rose bush that had been shoved into her unwilling arms twelve minutes after the fight had begun. She'd have dropped it without care by now had it not somehow swallowed her arms whole. Enormous thorns prevented easy extrication.

"Tell him he can't –"

"Tell her she won't –"

"He's crazy if he thinks I –"

"She never shuts –"

"_He_ doesn't listen –"

"All right!" Mary screamed, this time above either spouse's best efforts. Marshal Shannon had had greater, more challenging training growing up than these two could possibly have dreamed. They paused only long enough, however, to gain breath before charging in again. This time, Mary took extreme measures.

"Enough, you lame brained –" initial pummeling with the rose bush – "sniveling little –" turn and beating of Roger – "whiny assed –" Rounding about, Mary managed several lashings more for each, her language falling into random swears and creative usage of identifying nouns before the couple were cowering in a kneel to the ground.

"My roses!" Edy continued plaintively until Mary ceased the beatings. She ripped herself from the branches in a fit of fury, uncaring the gashes following the separation.

"Goddamnit, you two!" she went on, kicking the prized bush with all the release she could managed. Marshall's witnesses were silent in reference to fear. She didn't care. It was enough to gain compliance.

"Keep your traps shut and your pinhole ears open." Mary glared in turn from Roger to Edy and back. Her voice was level in order to lessen appeal to locals. "You two will either settle your differences within the next five minutes and go back into your house and go on living in Albuquerque with your established friends and careers, or…"

Here she paused for emphasis, scowl darkening. "_Or…_ you will immediately pack a bag each and find yourselves relocated by nightfall, never to see each other or your current lives ever again. Do I make myself clear?"

Murmurings of some vague assent drifted up, and Mary paced from one to the other, de-troweling and de-clippering, muttering.

"Bitchy little children. God, how hard is it to say, 'Honey, I love you but I don't appreciate it when you come home smelling like a fucking brewery after I played little Ms. Betty Crocker all afternoon,'?" Mary was up to gathering all the garden utensils into a five gallon bucket, determined to keep all implements out of immediate access for the time being. "Or, 'Darling, I just want the whore-in-the-bedroom I married; you can still be a Stepford wife at all the block parties,'?"

Finding the pair still listening – did it still count if their bodies were poised for flight, their eyes rapidly blinking in nervous tics? – Mary recited how quickly she could put things in motion if they didn't zip it, grow up, and knock off the Broadway Production for the otherwise quiet neighborhood. By the time she left seven minutes later, she felt every ache from her non-stop day. Sweat drying in the Koupe's frigid air conditioning left behind grit and fine sheen of her body's salt, rubbing viciously into the dried, bloody rips in her flesh. She now hated roses and rose bushes with a passion.

Hours later, only God knew how she hadn't offed someone by the time she was delving into the last case review file of her day. The sun was dipping deeply into the horizon, but the office remained stifling, the AC units failing in the wake of some catastrophic 'O'-ring failure. Or something.

Everyone else had escaped on one pretense or another, but Mary knew if she didn't finish up paperwork now, it would haunt her night's plans for a cowboy or doctor or something. Stan had already been pushed on patience, a solid chewing on overdue case supplements having taken place just before he left an hour prior. Mary's mood plummeted even further.

Anger, irritation, physical discomfort, sexual frustration, dehydration, hunger… All Mary could think on was getting out the office, grabbing another Big Gulp and Artichoke's take out, and relishing a cool shower. Then a few whiskeys with suitable company. Any deviation at this point might result in a threat to her next ten to twenty years.

It was in the last throes of narrative bullshitting that the elevator sounded, its smooth rolling of doors the very poke into her low growling state she'd dared anyone make. Click of the accessed security door…

Mary allowed a sidelong glance from her bent position. Unused to seeing him in BDUs, she spared an extra pause before turning back to her work. Head to calf in dark blue with black tactical boots, even the brief look caught the extensive, strategic dark splotches over his long body. Had they blended color better, the damp tendrils along his hairline and lock ends would have been enough evidence, indicative of many active hours under sun and oppressive heat. Outdoor range.

He had nothing on her day.

Expecting some smartass or ridiculously happy greeting or comment, Mary absentmindedly noted Marshall had not said a word, had instead went first to a filing cabinet, searched and drew out several folders, then seated himself heavily at his desk. She checked quickly to see if he was merely staring at her, waiting for own acknowledgement. He wasn't.

The frown tightened between her brows and around her mouth. Marshall appeared to be – unbelievably – brooding. _Brooding?_ Seriously? He had range today. Sure, he had to do well as it was re-qualification, but there was no chance he would have failed. She regularly practiced with him; he was golden. So what could he possibly have to brood about? She scowled now, irritated. Honestly, he got to fire his weapon all day, working out all his aggressions. While she – _she_ – had to rein hers in while dealing with every craptastic and stupid, idiotic issue and situation. Including _his_ witnesses.

She let another ten minutes go by, finishing up the summary and re-filing the folders. The sky had turned dark with loss of nova and encroaching of storm clouds. _Great; another empty promise_, she thought bitterly, hand sliding to the back of her neck, lifting away the sweat-heavy locks. Mother Nature had yet to pay up on the I.O.U. her dry panels of lightening wrote out.

Spotting a stray folder on the other side of her desk, Mary quickly retrieved it, ready to be shut of the place. She was late for some location with a working cooling system and copious amounts of stress relieving options. The file slid easily enough into the back of the drawer, but upon pulling her hand back, she caught the exposed metal edging of the cabinet frame. Welts of dried blood opened afresh with the savage scraping.

"_Sonovabitch!_" she hissed, running the phrase into a single, skewed word as she jerked back her arm protectively to her chest.

"You all right?" Marshall queried from his seat, his attention mildly concerned but focused on her. Mary stretched her arm out for both their inspection, finding only the white marks of abrasion with but a few miniscule crimson swellings of blood. It didn't matter. It was the sharpened prick to her overwrought, over-inflated temper.

"No I'm not fuckin' all right," she bit, turning this leakage of spew on him. "Your damn witnesses – the Cantons – are fucking out of hand, Marshall. You have any idea the bullshit I went through today with them?"

Apparently relieved her physical injury was no worse than presented, and emotional teetered simply on pissiness over his witnesses, her partner's countenance altered. He turned back to his work, dismissing her vent with a distracted nod and rhetorical, "Can we talk about it later?"

Tired of being shrugged off, ignored, presumed a minion for everyone else, Mary set her jaw, narrowed her eyes. She was not everyone's go-girl today. She was hot, hungry, tired, and bodily worse for the wear. Marshall's witnesses were to blame for the most vivid of her trials today, and damn it, he was going to hear about it and correct it.

"You've coddled those two like petulant children, you know." Rubbing to soothe the scrapes on her arm. "All they do is bitch and moan and don't mind worth a damn. They're going to get themselves and one of us killed. You're going to have to put your foot down and make them –"

He cut her off with a scolding look and raised voice. "I _said_ let's talk about it later, Mare. As in_… not today_." Meaningful pause, then return to case file. Mary stared at him disbelieving. Did he just _snap at her?_

Hauling her empty coffee mug to the kitchenette, she left the dirty container in the sink with a dash of water then started back toward her desk, hovering before it, glaring at her partner and his obliviousness to her. She could have let it go. Probably should have. Should have just gathered her bag and jacket and went on to find relief from her day. But, as Mary would mull over it later, deep down she was spoiling for a fight.

She got one.

"Oh, what, you're just going to lie down and take orders from Archie and Edith on steroids, then? Jesus, Marshall; why don't you grow a pair and act like a goddamned Deputy Marshal in charge and not some cooing mama's boy trying to kiss their asses until trial." She took a breath, priming for a deluge of his offenses, propping her hip against her desk. Arms akimbo at her waist. Eyes – unfortunately – missing his full body tensing, the cessation of his writing. His lack of overt reaction spurred her on.

"My day wouldn't have been half as shitty if you'd just taken the reins with those two when they first came in. Afraid you're gonna hurt their precious little feelings? That they're not going _like you_? That's your problem, Marshall; you're too damned worried about everyone's damn _feelings_. Well, fuck that. You need to stop being such a sissy girl and man up for once –"

His move was so abrupt, so unexpected, that at first Mary did not quite comprehend. Marshall had just been sitting at his desk, filling out some form or other. And yet, in a blink here he now stood before her. Over her. Crowding her.

She slid off the desk and took an involuntary step backward, staring up at him.

It would be much later when they both would realize with absolute certainty that Marshall had drastically overreacted. Yes, Mary had taunted him, pushed his buttons, egged him into a fight. But they both knew normally Marshall would handle this and more in stride. It was his nature. When he'd finally had enough, he would leave the situation should it be warranted. But Marshall wasn't Marshall tonight, wasn't buffering the acknowledgement that his partner needed to vent. Wasn't separating her bad day from a personal attack on him. Because his day had been a carryover of a torrent for two days, and his nerves raw and exposed, and anger at Fate and Life desperate for an escape route.

"What was that Mary?" he asked lowly, jaw clenched. An unease suddenly fell over Mary as she met slitted eyes, indistinguishable in the failing ambient of weak desk lamps. His words following were just as level, as deceptively calm as though working through a curious problem. "Think I let people walk all over me just because I respect their feelings? Hmm? That I'm not manly enough to _handle_ them as you see fit?"

He took a step forward, pushing her again by space invasion. But Mary – being Mary – fought back the unease with censure. She stabbed at him with a finger, emphasizing her point. "Yeah, Marshall, I do. If your prissy little ass would just –"

Without warning her right wrist was encircled from below in a grip secure and jerked directly to her side. When her immediate reaction was to slap his chest in annoyed command he let go, the left wrist followed suit. What happened next, however, she never saw coming.

"Let go of me, asshole," she demanded, jerking her arms and wrists in small circles as training had dictated. But Marshall had the same training, and Marshall had large, strong hands that encircled her wrists half again. She lunged as though to step past him, and in return he jerked her sharply back, throwing her none-too-gently against the half-glassed wall of the conference room.

"I'm sorry I'm such a goddamned pain in your ass, Mary Shannon," he ground out. He'd pinned her wrists above her head and stretched out Christ-like. Surreptitiously Mary tested his grip. Solid; tight. Marshall wasn't playing; she was suddenly, truly trapped. Tendrils of something akin to real fear took form in her gut, the first time ever in regard to this man. Distantly she knew Marshall would never hurt her, but she couldn't help the nervousness of knowing this powerlessness. Again. Even with her best friend.

He was standing far too close, as well. Claustrophobically close.

"What's the matter, Mare?" he taunted with a small smile. But there was no humor in his eyes. "Don't like not being the one in control? Hmm? That's a real issue with you, isn't it?"

Never was she so aware before of his towering height – that six-foot two stretch, not including the additional couple inches the boots gave him. Menacing. _Intimidating_. Not normal associations with Marshall. Increasingly aware he was beyond pissed; she'd never seen him so angry… at her. Heat and musk of sweat radiating off him from a day at the range in the swelter of a New Mexican summer.

"What the hell's your problem, Marshall?" she snipped back, intent to clear her mind of this new cognizance. Avoidance of his comment was mandatory, too. Change of direction. "Lately it doesn't matter what the hell I say or do, you're all over my ass. I'm sorry I'm not your perfect little dream girl, Shae."

The flinch was fleeting, replaced by a new tension. His grip on her wrists tightened painfully, his fingers wrapped fully around them with thumbs pressed against and down from the center of her palms to her pulse point. So pissed, his speech was barely restrained and tight, barely audible. Low. His jaw almost locked. Voice dangerous, smooth… Eyes focused and dark with emotion. He shifted closer, pressing against her, capturing her bodily between himself and glass and paneling.

He went on almost conversationally as though she hadn't spoken.

"It's like Sunday; you couldn't play by the rules because _you_ weren't the one in control." Head bent closer to hers, drilling her with eyes blackening in emotion restrained.

"I made a good call and you know it," she replied righteously. "Even said so yourself, if you'll recall."

He studied her a moment, and she fidgeted. Piercing. Powerful. His nearness… a primal aura coming off of him. Here was no girly boy, Mary mentally admitted with a start. She could feel his muscles bunch throughout his body, a reined in power on the edge. Something had happened to set Marshall upon this precipice he now stood, wavering dangerously. Yet Mary couldn't shake off the waves of conflicting stimuli long enough to even ponder the root of this meltdown. She was having a hard enough time thinking at all.

"Yes, I did. And it was. But it could have just as easily been a bad one," he pointed out, tone rough and chastising. "Could have gotten another law enforcement officer killed because _you_ didn't want to follow instructions. All you had to do was tell them the situation had changed, tell them what happened and what you were about to do – if there was any cause to hold off, they'd have told you."

Impossibly closer. Dimly she was aware he'd widened his stance, lowered himself in order to meet her, just off her face and only inches higher. So close she took in every detail. Sweaty, grimy. Two days' scruff. Hair short and sticking in directions from frustrated hands, most likely. Points of pinning contact – chest, crossed thighs, hip bones. Each even but labored breath of his heard and felt. And _g__oddamnit_ he _felt good_. Tingling chanted throughout her body, awakening to this imposing male. Too often she forgot just how big Marshall Mann actually was. Slender, yes, but broad of shoulder, all muscle, lean and fit and tall, solid. Made her feel petite. And as corny as that thought was in passing, no amusement was found in the concept.

Lower still he spoke, gritty, his breath hot across her cheek. "You can't be in control of everything, Mary. You've tried to control me; not a wise choice."

She snorted, made an effort to keep her voice from cracking. Snide tinged with incredulousness was the path. "I've never tried to control you."

"Yes you have; guilt, manipulation, whatever. For the last two years I've tried to tell you how I felt about you, and you tried to control that – control me. You didn't want to hear it, so you'd change subject or redirect or turn to your favorite method of avoidance: run."

"I don't have to listen to your fucked up ravings of a lunatic, Marshall," she said in a panic, and lunged her whole body in a forty-five degree angle effort to escape the confines of her partner. She didn't count on him using the forward motion against her, and when he jerked her toward center instead, she was met flush against him, his height dominance reclaimed. This time he'd pulled her wrists arm's length to her side, and toward himself as though he were simply stretching. Kept her from his weapons; kept her so intimately against him she couldn't escape her own betraying thoughts.

"See?" he explained, brows rising in mocking fashion. She tried to roll her eyes, but couldn't pull them from his direct stare. His timbre turned self-derisive.

"I'll admit my own culpability in that; I _let_ you shy away because I didn't want to push you, make you uneasy. I knew how you felt about honest relationships, about mixing friendship with something greater. But damn it, Mary, I'm done walking on eggshells just to protect you. And your _feelings_."

One last distracting chance at Houdini. His physical strength concerned her much less than the turmoil he was causing her internally, the latter rooting her to that very spot. She couldn't put a name to it; to do so would make it real.

"You're the one who's trying to control everything Marshall." She managed a cool voice, disdain dripping from each syllable. It was a struggle. "Always Mr. Perfectly Behaved, never showing any knee-jerk, genuinely open reaction. It's like talking to a damn robot; everything's in perfect order, every thought analyzed and approved before you reveal it. You're the one trying to control your whole universe."

He was silent for so long, Mary grew nervous, a sense of foreboding robbing her bravado. The whole conversation was making her uncomfortable; she had to redirect.

Weight settled heavier against her, and Mary caught sight and felt the shift as Marshall pinned her once more against the wall, this time letting his arms bend to support him by forearms flat to the glass… his damp, stiffened BDUs chafing her bare arms, his 200-plus pounds finding support against her hips.

He was far too close.

"You're right," he said finally, just above a whisper but not nearly as gentle. "I've been trying to control my life, rule my reactions, my feelings, as though they were merely logistics problems to be redirected. I thought I could make my own choices by rationale, plan out my future simply by my own decisions. Choose from the pattern or option available, so to speak, and it would work out fine. How foolish I was."

Mary's breaths came shallow, now; rapid. As he spoke, Marshall began moving his head, skimming all about her face in a directionless search, remaining a scant inch or less from her skin but never once touching. Pressed near in inspection, drew abruptly away. She felt his hot breath grow ragged and strained, mouth hovering in chaotic and random trails about her face, chin, lips, corner of eyes, jaw line. As though a game of seek, floating across in a hunt for some location, a perch on which a bird could settle its fluttering wings. Like a predatory animal deciding if caught prey was primed for consumption.

This unholy, overwhelming draw possessed her, enveloped her. Each time Marshall would almost breach the boundary between their flesh, lips parted, he'd jerk back an inch, like a kitten newly introduced to a bowl of milk. Near her temple... her earlobe… the corner of her mouth. It was driving her insane. The world outside their primary sphere barely existed. All Mary could acknowledge at that moment was this injudicious need, this craving. Desperate for actual touch – his touch. Marshall's touch.

God she wanted to kiss him. To feel those firm lips on hers, a gnawing craving to experience his body pressed deeply against her, a solidness intoxicating in its intensity. Shocking pangs of sexual need jolted through her belly, starbursting throughout her body. Rising on tip toes, Mary tried to make sense of his random movements, to break the pattern and this overgrown tension that bled so heavy in the air she could barely breathe. But he kept just enough distance. Flashes of his eyes suggested entrancement, realizing himself just in time before he broke that imaginary barrier between them. As though he was searching her face, scrutinizing, seeking… something. Sensing it out.

"The heart wants what the heart wants, Mary." Uneven, ragged. Below a whisper, to himself. A confession of weary resignation. Lips still searching. "And mine has always wanted you."

His grip on her wrists instantly tightened, and she didn't have to look to know his eyes had closed in much the same pained manner. In pain, coupled with something else. And Mary understood.

Marshall was fighting himself, fighting the drowning that would be so damn easy were he to kiss her. Like going to sleep in the frigid waters of the Bering Sea. _So damn easy_.

His head bent to her once more, his entire being taut and coiled. Same tense expression on his face, jaw tight with some errant self control. Yet only his harsh whisper brushed her skin.

"Lie to me…" Urgent, but not pleading. His eyes drifted open, hazy but focused. Passing through physiology to see her hidden secrets. She trembled. "Lie to me, Mary. Tell me you love me."

Her eyes widened. _What did he just say?_ A panic rose through her, battling with every other unexpected sensation cast upon her tonight. Gathering what scruples she may have left, Mary managed to form one word, its delivery between wonder and entreaty.

"_Marshall…_"

But already he was slowly shaking his head, eyes still captured by hers. A calm spooky and somehow heart wrenching ruling their bright blue depths.

"No," he said, little more than a breath to form the word. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have done this." Warmth of his body heat fled when he stepped away, facially beseeching forgiveness from her. She had no chance to answer; they both knew that forestalling was his very intent, even as he backed away without breaking this tenuous visual contact. "I'm so very sorry."

Seven feet out he turned and, with strides crafted of those beautifully long legs, was across the room and out the door before she could draw enough air to call to him. If she'd known even what to say.

Mary stood stock still, concentrating on respiration as she watched him turn to take the stairs. It was only after he had long disappeared from view that arms had realized their freedom, and she dropped them shakily to her sides.

**-o-**

He was gasping for air like a dying man, drowning in the vicious undertow of emotion. Hyperventilation was a real concern as alternately he shifted between supporting himself on bent legs and straightening to throw his head back against the sandy grit surface of the Sunshine Building, gulping oxygenated atmosphere. Marshall had to get some semblance of control before he passed out.

God, what the hell had gotten into him? He'd let her goad him, let his pent up anger trigger a rush of revelation and honesty, far more than was _ever_ a good idea. But she'd been right, though. She'd called him out, and he'd had to face his own frivolity of the last four months for the farce it had been. He had his own control issues. Marshall was a man who was sensitive to complex feelings and emotions and the subtleties of life's human interactions. And yet, he'd deigned to imagine he could make the declaration to not love her anymore, and it would happen. That he could choose to fall in love with someone else, someone who wanted him, perhaps even loved him. That he could compare the two constantly and relish their differences and it would be enough. And he'd find happiness.

How arrogant he'd been.

Instead, he'd been so unfair to Shae. Right selfish bastard he was. Trying to protect his heart by denying it, using Shae to paint over the brand of Mary's mark upon it. Damn it. The least he could have done was to have admitted his latent feelings for his partner to her. Or perhaps not so latent. But then Shae – by all rights – would not have wanted a man who couldn't be wholly hers. He'd deceived her, but most of all he'd deceived himself. And it all came back at this very moment to lash at him with a vengeance. Adoration for Shae, so sweet and open to him and the world…

For months he'd tried to convince himself he'd gotten over Mary, had moved on for the better. Had found complete contentment and joy with this amazing young woman from Georgia. Had found real happiness, perhaps even love. Superficially he had. But ultimately at every turn his subconscious and body betrayed him. Consistently returned in homecoming to their hunger for the familiar and beloved qualities of Mary, no matter how out of reach.

His distraction now gone, there was nothing there to divert him from the blessed, cursed truth.

Marshall leaned flat-backed against the wall, gathering his feet back under him. Trembling with adrenaline, he knew he had to get out, get away from people, from opportunity to further destroy his sanity by his own doing. Self-disgust fueled inner anger, and he pushed off the wall with purpose, desperate to lose himself in the night.

**-o-**

An epiphany should come with warning signs. Fear and startlement and uncertainty, those she could handle. Epiphanies? Unpleasant, at best. Tilting of the world's axis when it was a mind blowing doozie like this one.

Never would she admit to Eleanor Prince she'd been right about something, something so vehemently denied by Mary as to be moral code. But by God this time Mary had been so utterly blind, she could have qualified for early pension. Even twenty-two minutes later, she couldn't quite wrap her consciousness around it.

Marshall. _Marshall_, for God's sake.

Sitting on the floor, back to the same wall he'd pinned her against, Mary's mind drifted all too realistically to that very scene, her physiological senses along for the ride.

He was so utterly _male_. Every fiber of her being had been seared with that truth. Achingly. Her body's response scared the total shit out of her, and she couldn't help replaying it in her mind, taking perverse pleasure in noting just when the circumstance had flavored with an arousal response from her traitorous hormones. Sure, she could say it was simply the situation. In the far reaches of her mind, Mary had always known he'd never actually hurt her. So that fear had been little more than subcutaneous. Yet he'd had utter control of the situation, of the environment… of her. It was a Marshall she'd never really seen before, badass partner in motion included. Darker. Definitely Alpha.

Eleanor had been right. Mary had been blinded by her own sense of survival, to never see Marshall as any sort of potential 'cowboy.' His friendship was too dear for that.

But if it had only been the adrenaline rush of the situation – something she prayed fervently was the case so things could go back to normal – then why was it her conscience chided her at the consideration? Had some other man she knew and trusted done that, her body would have responded much the same way, she reasoned. Because, after all, deep down she wanted a man who could be a man, not a pushover pansy ass she could walk on. One who met her with challenge, ignited a fire.

Then reality poked her with an unsettling truth: had even Raph done that, former fiancé extraordinaire, she would have been annoyed, pissed off, possibly have shot him. But by no means would she have found it erotically invigorating.

Just with Marshall.

That fact disturbed her on so many levels, Mary didn't know where to start. He'd arrested her, detained her by brute force, reprimanded her. She should be homicidal toward him right now. But she wasn't. No; the only thing she felt toward him right this moment was pure and unadulterated sexual attraction. She _wanted_ him.

And it frightened her.

Scrambling unsteady to her feet, Mary quickly grabbed her things and dashed out the door, in a hurry to catch Marshall before he did something seriously stupid. She'd caught his words, his look, his unspoken meaning, and knew he was about to ruin his relationship with Shae over some form of self-flagellation. He had left blaming himself for everything, and the Boy Scout he was said he would tell his girlfriend every morsel out of guilt. She couldn't let him do that, couldn't let him lose the one in thing in his life that might be happy and stable, because she sure as hell wasn't with this new revelation of her own feelings.

Record time found her parked before the vaguely familiar structure of Marshall's building. The ride up in the renovated freight elevator had felt like forever, and yet not long enough. Mary didn't know what she was going to say, just knew that something had to be said. Marshall would beat himself up over tonight, and she couldn't let him. Once they got past that… well, she'd just have to play it on the fly.

Into the generous foyer from the elevator, Mary cast a quick glance out the windows to her right. If Mother Nature was lying to her again, it was good fake, she'd give it that. As if to emphasize the point, a shuddering rumble shook the foundation, walls, rattled the windows as thunder rolled menacingly. Mary stepped on, quickly reaching the loft door further past on her left.

Knocks went unanswered. She'd seen his truck, knew he was home. Worried he'd climbed into a bottle far too quickly, she resorted to banging on the heavy metal door, only to find it sliding a quarter inch to the side. Unlocked. Unlatched.

Debates were quick and volatile in her mind, but action spoke louder and Mary drew her weapon, slid the pocket door open, and stepped into the practically unknown loft.

It was dark. Only lights from the city outside lit the interior. The hum of the refrigerator to her left; a click of an old fashioned wall clock to her right. Multitude of glass wall straight across from her.

"Marshall?" Soft, but wary. She didn't want to catch him off guard, introducing friendly fire in the process. But something wasn't right, and the churning in her stomach egged her on.

Silently she chastised herself for never bothering to visit him at home. The layout was unfamiliar, and knowing Marshall it could be just as complicated to navigate in daylight, much less in covert night operations. It took ten minutes to clear the spacious loft room by room, the tiny flashlight on her keychain her proof he wasn't prostrate on the floor somewhere, bloodied or broken.

She'd also seen enough to know she seriously wanted to see this place fully in the daytime.

Having nowhere else to turn, Mary finally ventured carefully toward the wall of glass. For clearer view, she quietly unlatched one of the French doors, pushing it just enough to slip out, then all but latched it back behind her. Music assaulted her, a driving beat full of reckless fury that matched the cumulating storm. Sage and creosote assailed her nostrils.

Hazel eyes full of worry scanned the elaborate rooftop, unbelieving of the landscaping but dismissive in light of her true goal. And then… there he was, maybe thirty feet away, down from her level on some sort of grassy area. The image left her speechless.

Bathed in shadows and remnants of dull amber light from afar, splashed with bright white cascade of heat lightening. The latter caught the definition of his bare chest, abs, arms, back. The former cast by neighboring buildings rivulet itself in rolling form along his flesh with every exacting, graceful movement, emphasizing the fine sheen of sweat glistening.

He was performing kata, hard, fast. Punishing. Like he was exorcising demons that refused to leave him in peace. Black knit gi pants tied securely low on his hips whipped about his legs with each precise, snapping movement. They ruffled in the blowing wind with every pause. Bare feet tread surely, light and balanced.

Had she known the kata, she might have mentally noted that Kwan Ku was an interesting form, intricate in its inclusion of the five Heian forms. But she didn't. What she did know what was that she could feel the energy coming off him, a sense of contained violence that had reached its critical stage. He hadn't noticed her. She edged back further into the shadows to keep it so, voyeuristically watching this complicated man of her life reveal himself unknowingly. Violently. Like the storm that was building atop them.

Static electricity crackled in the air, leaving Mary that much more tense. Wind picked up significantly, tousling his shortened hair. He'd cut it – earlier today, apparently. Psychology babble bounced through her skull, suggesting all sorts of reasons for the sudden mutilation. But as quickly as the commentary had visited, it left, as she grew increasingly mesmerized by the angry performance, the power released with every punch, kick… coiling contraction, exploding expansion. Various lights ebbed and flowed over a body beautifully sculpted, teasing her with mere glimpses.

He was breathing hard. She could almost hear the _whoosh _of each empty strike's exhalation. His eyes were not visible, but there was no mistaking the intent within. Fate was rubbing it in to Mary Shannon just how shortsighted she had been about Marshall. She could not immediately recall a more masculine specimen, the intensity in his movements, his very aura, striking her with a force palpable and rich.

This man she had undoubtedly, unintentionally hurt without thought over the years. Had emasculated with more jabs than she'd cared to remember. Because he'd accepted it, mirrored it. Never once had hinted it mattered these things she said in sarcastic rebuff. All because he had misstep, had fallen into a camouflaged pit and found himself engulfed in love for her. Because Marshall never did anything half-assed or part way.

The gods of irony and torture and humanity and gleeful _Gotcha!_ shoved her face in this turn of events now, presenting this man to her in such contrasting light to her own experiences. This man who, at this very moment, had so much passion in his lean frame that it couldn't be contained anymore. This same man before her, sleek and edgy, wounded by a devil inside him she couldn't defend him from. Paradox to the silent strength and stability he'd become in her life.

The ache deep in her chest was bittersweet. The ache further below – raw, rough.

Ruminations ran headlong into a brick wall at a hundred miles an hour when her partner suddenly _kiai'd_, heard even over the driving wind and deafening drum beat of the music. And with Mary as unintentional witness, Marshall squared perpendicular to what looked like a small, intricate gazebo, and promptly, viciously drove the back of his fist through it. The _crack_ of the splintering wood resounded in her head.

It was time to go.

On feet fleet and light, she back traced her steps to leave the loft, fleeing down the stairs opposite the elevator. Out again into the ominous prelude of a thunderstorm, all flashes of energy and whirlwinds of disorientation and anticipation, with no relief of reaching the desired pinnacle of downpour release.

Just like the unresolved sexual tension she now knew lay between them.

Mary climbed into her car, nerves jangling. Saltwater stung the corners of her eyes, some unnamed villain conjuring the tears. In the course of an hour, her world had turned completely topsy-turvy, and she couldn't get her footing. Spiraling out of control – there's that obscene word again – and with no resolution in sight, she found herself desperately seeking any sort of refuge. Just until this storm ended.

Driving with only one objective in mind, Mary's anxiety grew at a frenzied pace, finally pinnacled when she climbed the stairs and knocked almost frantically, despairing to be heard over the weather. Finally the door opened, and the face before her grew slack-jawed and wide-eyed in surprise.

"_Mary?_"

**-o-**

The e-mail sat in his Inbox since late Monday night, unread.

_Marshall,_

_Got a call routed through the back gate yesterday for your girl. Area code was Santa Fe. Fella was asking for the groom for Charlemagne's Bane. Couldn't recall her name, asking first for Cassie, Cassandra… said he owed her for some work. Left a number for her to call 'Little Elk' at her earliest. 505-982-0092._

_Hope it helps._

_Lou_

_Louis Davidson, NMHBPA_


	20. Ch 20: A State of Grace

**Disclaimer****: **Haven't laid claim, yet…

**Author's Note:** Thank you all for the kind words during my semi-self-imposed hiatus. I had had half of this chapter written within days of the previous one, but then real life with real scumbags, real puzzles, and real angst just simply got in the way. For weeks. And weeks.

Sorry.

The announcement Thursday night of only 8 episodes in not only Season 5 but in the entire series… yeah, that didn't help the Muse or mood any, either. But as of Fri night, I started writing again. And now it is Sunday, and no IPS to immerse me in commentary and speculation. At least it was a great finale Sunday evening.

_**As always, reviews are most appreciated**_. Talk to me. How'd the chapter make you feel, make you think? Any one thing stand out? Make you smile? Cringe? Sniffle as a stray tear fled down your cheek?

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 20: A State of Grace**

She looked good. But Mary always looked good, even when she… didn't. She also looked something else, too. A little sad, maybe? Not like someone had died or ran away from her, but maybe like… like she didn't know what to do. Like she was lost. He'd never really seen her like that.

He leaned heavily, hip to counter, while he waited for the water to boil on the stove. Chilean coffee; she would like that. No coffee maker now, he went the old fashioned way with a filter and strainer. Gave him more time to think, to watch her without facing her. She sat just outside his open back door, the patio chair sheltered beneath the awning, protected from the storm that was trying to come. Breezes fluttered in, carrying the smell of rain and Mary.

She was staring out over his tiny back yard, mostly brick because it was easier to care for. Peter had done the work; he just rented it.

Raphael considered the woman he never expected to see again. Had been shocked when she had shown up at his door six minutes before, looking – _¿__c____ó__mo se dice?_ – _beaten_. His first thought had been she was there for some easy sex. After all, they had had such sex after breaking up once before, and it was what she had always said was their _thing_. It had made him nervous, because he was in a happy relationship now with a comfortable woman who wanted all the things he did.

And she didn't do something secret, leaving in the middle of the night and getting shot.

But Mary had surprised him when she had stood there nervous, barely looking at him. Her first words were not big-life Mary, not about the bedroom. They were quiet and thoughtful and sort of fearful.

"Did I try to control us, Raph? Did I try to control _you_ when we were together?" she had asked. Then had wiped angrily at her eyes where he suspected tears were building. He'd invited her in.

Now she sat on his back patio, just outside the open kitchen door, and stared into the walk lights that glowed about the tiny yard, soft against the colorful flowers his girlfriend had planted. No, she was not here for sex. She seemed to want to talk, but about what he did not know. Only that no one had died or was sick, though he believed Peter would have told him if that was the case.

The kettle rattled as its contents boiled, and he turned off the heat. Raphael could not recall how she drank her coffee, so after pouring the water through the grounds, he gathered a half gallon milk jug and container of sugar, spoon and mug and laid them out on the patio table glass. He studied her carefully as he sat with his own drink.

At first she did not acknowledge the offering, looking down slightly at it but back to the empty privacy fence across from them. Raph took several slow sips before she turned and began to prepare her coffee. Her words were so soft, he had to read her lips. Harder to do in English, but easy in that it was only a 'thank you.' He nodded, figured he would have to speak first.

"You look good, Mary," he managed, knowing nothing else to say. Finally she looked up, small smile saying she appreciated his compliment. Then her gaze returned down, shadows dancing across features he had once loved with his body. He missed that, missed her, but surprisingly he did not long for that once more.

She was silent for some time, taking a drink of her coffee. Then another. Looked around. Finally spoke, a voice small like a child's, unsure.

"Is that what really drove us apart? That I tried to control everything? You… us?" Her eyes reached his from her lowered face. She was hurting, and he hurt for her. He owed her honesty if nothing else.

"That was… part of it," he admitted, a pain to his heart when she winced. Honesty, however, was not complete there. Hard though it was for him, Raphael knew he had to let her hear the whole truth, not just what he had let her realize when he did not fight anymore for them all those months ago. "Part, Mary, but not, maybe, the biggest wall between us."

Her head snapped up at his words, her expression confused.

"What?" Now she stared at him, and he found himself ready to say what he could never say before. Before, it hurt too much. Now, the distance of time and body from her made the truth easier somehow.

He sighed heavily, adjusted his seating. Glanced out over the landscaping, distantly admiring the beauty as the sky lit in vicious patterns. Everything fit, and it was time this woman across from him heard the violence of his nightmares for many months. Dreams that no longer scared him, because he had passed them some time ago. They no longer left him worried and nervous; she was no longer the spirited, willful wind he could not hold onto. He was no longer so close, could see with better vision. This woman was now only someone he once knew, once loved, and once had mistakenly tried to carve into a picture of his future.

Now… she was a friend in need.

"You did not love me enough to bend so that we could meet on the same paths," he began. And when he saw her face drop further, he hurried to explain the real reason, something she never could have helped. "That was also only part, though. Mary…"

He waited until she looked back up at him, eyes glassy to the borrowed lighting from the kitchen counter lights. In that moment, a pressing question broke his thoughts, and he had to ask.

"Why is it you want to know this now? Now when it can make no difference, and not then when it might have?" His tone was light, and she could not miss that he asked in mere curiosity and not accusing. "I am only wondering; I do not condom you."

Her brows drew together in disapproving confusion, but rather than growl at him like she would have before, she only said, "I think you mean 'condemn,' Raph."

He simply nodded, and she seemed to take his easy acceptance to her correction as permission – or request – to move on, to answer his question. She took a deep breath, letting it out loudly through pursed lips.

"Well, um… Someone said something to me to that effect, that I… have to control everything. Myself, others… situations." Her gaze rambled around until she glanced back at him. "I guess I just wanted to know if they were right, if I really am that bad."

When she fell silent again, Raphael thought about her reason, and with no question he knew the man who had said this to her. And it _was_ a man; it was the only person in the world she would worry about his opinion of her. This only made Raphael more sure of his beliefs from their own time as a couple.

"Our marriage never happened, Mary," he said, gentle and a little heartbroken, "because I was not first in your heart."

"My job," she mumbled in answer, knowing her fault so well. But she did _not_ know her fault; she deserved to know the real reason, as she had never understood before.

"No, Mary, not your job." This time her head came up with a blink of his eyes, her own wide and shocked. "I hated your job, but you loved it, and I loved you, so I could handle it for you. Not with happiness, but I could survive. But…" He sighed, sat back in his chair, a sad smile telling her again that he was not angry.

"You always had someone else first in your heart, in your head. It was not me you told your fears to; it was not me you cried for when there was blood and hurt. It was not me, _mi amiga_, you laughed with and shared your good moments in life." His voice softened, and he tried once more to make her understand, herself.

"I was never the one you thought of first in everything; not even your mother or your sister." Now she was breathing quickly, scared, not watching him as he told her what she needed to hear. "No, Mary Shannon, there was only ever one person you were in love with, and it was not me, and that is why we do not have a marriage. And you could not have stopped yourself from loving him, any more than I could have made myself pretend you did not."

"_In love with?_" Mary sounded like a cartoon mouse, her speech so high. Raphael almost laughed; she really did not know. Or she did not want to know. He could believe either easily.

He laughed. He could not help the sound coming from his chest; she was so like a child right now. If only he could protect her; but that was someone else's job.

"Yes, Mary; you are in love with him. You have always been in love with him, even when we were good together with _our thing_." He stressed the term she always called them.

Silent was not normal for this powerful lady he had lost to another man before he had even met her. He let her think, and after a few minutes, she spoke.

"I don't know what being in love is," she finally said, careful not to look at him for long. He noticed she never asked the identity of the man. He smiled.

"You think of him first, no matter the news. You trust him upon everyone. You miss him when he is gone – really miss him – and talk to him about your mind. You are you when you are with him, and care what only _he_ thinks. Mary, you have only not loved him with your _body_… and there were times I had thought maybe… well, maybe you wanted to do that. Your eyes said you did not want him with other women.

"That is love, and it is not a sad thing, Mary. Love him with all your heart, and do not let anyone – 'specially yourself – deny you this happiness. We all deserve such joy."

When she looked away, unable to speak, Raphael helped her change the topic. "Now, go home before my girlfriend thinks bad of me for spending so much time with you." Mary caught his smile as he stood, her face making one of its own. "You are still too beautiful for her to forgive me without me begging first."

Her low, choked laughter echoed in his head long after she had left. Somehow, he thought that now she might smile from deep inside. And that maybe, just maybe, he had helped her find that.

**-o-0-o-**

She hit the door running, just as she often did when coming into work after a long night. Unfortunately, her long night had not resulted from wild masculine entertainment or overindulgence from her buddy tequila, or a compromised witness whose very life and limb were at stake. It was not even an all-nighter with her best friend.

It was an all-nighter _because_ of her best friend. And her own psychoses.

Ignoring Charlie's polite, perky words of greeting, Mary scanned the office quickly and efficiently as she stored her personal items, taking in that Marshall was not to be seen. Inventorying his desk, a stray breath held released in relief; he hadn't run away.

No, he wouldn't have; that was _**her **__modus operandi_.

Blessedly familiar strains of solid boot steps echoed to her ears, and Mary's smile was instinctual, unconsidered as she looked up to seek their source. Mail and forms fell unnoticed from slightly trembling hands. He was speaking with one of the newbies from Phoenix, engrossed in seemingly serious conversation. Hand gestures drew her attention, and she caught the left full of a thick manila folder, the hand swaddled in a flesh-colored elastic bandage, thumb to beneath the long sleeve of his black button-down. The pair walked toward the conference room with telling looks and low tones before parting at the door. His associate entered the room; Marshall turned to his left, following course for the rooftop. Never once glancing back at her.

After last night… She needed to talk to him. _They_ needed to talk.

Starting around her desk corner, she made only three strides before a voice called softly but authoritatively, "Let him be, Mary. He doesn't need to speak with you right now."

She stopped, out of surprise more than anything. Stan remained unmoved, but his eyes searched her critically, weightedly. She returned the gaze with wariness born of recent emotional upheaval. Cautiously she spoke, a glazing of typical derision masking her unease.

"With all due respect, Stan," she began, that in itself a phrase she never uses, "you don't know anything about –"

"I know and understand a great deal more than you think, Inspector." His gaze met hers directly, a conveyance of more than verbalized words. "And I repeat: leave it be for a while. Marshall needs some space."

Shock reverberated through Mary, leaving her speechless. Stan's implication rattled her; that he knew what Mary herself had only truly acknowledged last night at Marshall's all-but-blatant confession… He couldn't know… could he?

It was improbable, less than even, but Mary remained leery nonetheless and followed orders without the slightest grumble. Keeping a watchful eye on her strangely stalwart boss, she shifted weight and eased backward to her chair, seated herself and pulled her attention from Chief McQueen's drawn brow and serious, saddened eyes.

Her stomach roiled.

For the next hour, Mary accomplished little, her mind abandoning focus from the data presented before her. Time and again furtive glances through the conference room to the other side distracted concentration. Finally an excuse formed in the need for coffee, the requirement in brewing a new pot, all offering time to stare through exterior glass to his lone form seated at the bistro table. She cast a quick look to Stan's office. Ensured he was otherwise occupied, she quickly filled two mugs with appropriate condiments and slipped down through the path to personal hell.

He was seemingly engrossed in the file spread out before him, head bent over in study while notes were jotted upon white legal paper in steady block print. Approach was hesitant, but force of will kept her feet moving slowly toward him until she could place the mug lightly to his left. A pause, then she sat gingerly across, sipping her own brew quietly.

"Thank you." His manners prevented unbroken silence, and soft though it was, Mary felt the gracious expression as though a megaphone had amplified each gritty syllable. His voice was raw, calling Mary's curiosity as to what new torment had occurred after she'd fled his home the night prior.

He seemed to expect no response and she offered none, content to watch him from beneath half-closed lids, coffee double-held in some arcane sense of need to occupy her hands. He continued to write; she continued to observe the racing images of her mind, each presenting a topic with which to open conversation. Each failing before her lips with the fore-envisioned reaction, and she remained mute. Once so easy to talk with, so easy to share the silence with, and now neither felt right. But tension seemed absent as well, and for that an eternal gratefulness radiated.

Several minutes passed in such fashion, until her attention alit on a subject otherwise taboo as well had he known she already knew. But the question broke through before she could prevent it; at least it gave voice to their mutually shared existence.

"What happened to your wrist?" Gentle, easy, concerned. His writing stilled, and Mary could make out his eyes moving toward her, catching perhaps only peripheral sight as his head never moved. The hand in question flexed. A breath caught in her throat, and once more she wondered if her game was so far off as to have led her to making matters worse. She wondered if he would even answer.

After long moments more, Mary saw his eyes close slowly, flicker of pain darting across the expression. Raph had told her she was in love with Marshall. She didn't know whether that was true or if it were some other emotion dictating every wayward tug of instinct. But she did know that she wanted with all her heart to take away that hurt emanating from him now.

"Training injury." Blinking, refocusing, return to his notes.

He didn't lie to her, she considered. He may not have told her the whole truth, but he didn't try to cover it in backward speak and superfluous wording. That was Marshall: honest with her, even when truth was a road most feared.

Searching yet again for something to connect with him, Mary was on the verge of some fringe of speech when Stan's authoritative tone breached contemplation. Guilty was her face when she turned to him, his one of disapproval. Marshall's showed no acknowledgement but that same still wariness without looking up.

"Mary, we've got a situation with the Blakes. If you'll join me…?"

**-o-**

An entire day wasted, in Mary's highly-irritated opinion. But in the end she was able to keep her witnesses unharmed, in the program, and off _Jerry Springer_. Success by anyone's standards.

Mary trudged across the quad, stopping suddenly at the inviting bench before the duck-infested lake. It had taken an hour of creative suggestion, wheedling and hints of questionable material in the wings for a YouTube premiere just to keep Juanita Blake enrolled at UNM. She was exhausted. She was developing a headache as well, dropping blood sugar from missed lunch only adding to her agitation. Laying her head back atop the bench back, she massaged her neck and shoulders in effort to release painful tension.

Drifting with decompression, ponderings flitted through open spaces of her mind. Not for the first time – nor for the last, she was sure – internal arguments set forth regarding last evening's revelations. Why was it surprising and yet… not?

She already knew… 'cause he'd told her. Months ago. Aside from the allusions and suggestions. Point blank. At her so-called engagement party, he'd come right out and said it to her – before others – cloaked in the blessing of a best friend towards her happiness. His eyes had told her what she hadn't – didn't – want to hear. He loved her. Was _in_ love with her.

But that was then. When he'd finally straight-out admitted this very earth-shattering upheaval to her the day of Stan and Eleanor's party, he had also clarified it in the past tense.

And yet Mary could not complain once, could not dispute or argue this alteration in status. She was the one who had chosen not to see or hear what was happening with her best friend, had avoided it like the Plague. And really, he had tried to tell her so many times before, in differing ways. Had his exuberant reaction to her unplanned ploy in a freshly bedded horse stall not given her a clue? Hands gripping her with violent passion, lips starved for her own. Kisses desperate –

"Mary?"

The smiling warmth of southern drawl broke her reverie. Mary's eyes peered open, her head rose off the heavy wooden slat to see Marshall's girlfriend standing braced before her, arms clasped about her heavy chest. Ponytail high and flowing maternity camisole leaving her looking fresh and picture of health, Shae smiled with an air of pleased surprise, the text held to chest in her clasped arms completing the image of adorableness. Mary had to admit it to herself, no matter how much she didn't want to see her partner's significant other in such complimentary terms.

Unfortunately, she _liked_ Shae.

"Hey, Shae," she offered wearily. "Off to classes?"

"Just finishing," she said, looking every bit as worn as Mary felt. "So what brings you out here, Marshal Shannon? Have we a fugitive hiding in our academic midst?" A soft chuckle followed up, and Mary could then notice the lack of energy in the younger woman's demeanor. She appeared as though she hadn't slept in days.

"Nothing so exciting," Mary quickly replied, already dismissing the conversation in lieu of her sudden concern. Squinting with furrowed brows, she caught the slight muscle trembling in the Georgian's petite frame, and her own protector's tendencies took over.

"Shae, you need to sit down," she stated, standing herself and stepping toward the young woman, directing her toward the bench. Shae merely shook her head.

"I'm fine, Mary. If I sit down now, it'll take a Skylift to get my hulking posterior back up." Supporting hand to her lower back, Shae shifted her weight, the quilted tote on her shoulder jingling as it swung.

"You _look_ like you're about five seconds from taking a sky_dive_ from an altitude of five feet if you don't sit your ass down now," she argued, gently but firmly grasping Shae's arm and upper back and steering her to respite. "I'm surprised Marshall isn't personally escorting you to and from your every jaunt these days; Mother Hen would be right pissed if he saw you right now."

Shae's feet suddenly halted and she turned to Mary, a new paleness drawing even greater worry now from the latter.

Her words were hesitant, an embarrassment hanging like a shroud. Eyes caught Mary's then flicked away. Back and forth, a mixture of concern and uncertainty. "Marshall didn't… tell you?"

"Tell me what?" An air of trepidation; Mary didn't like where this was going, and she had no idea just where that was. Shae's manner was disconcerting.

Quieter, ashamed. "We, uh… broke up."

"What?" Mary had to strain to hear, sure she had not caught that right. Shae merely bit her lower lip, looked around apprehensively as though judgment were upon her. Finally a shallow sigh escaped and she moved to sit down on the bench carefully.

"What happened?" The concern and bemusement were genuine, and Mary could not reconcile this news with the seemingly thorough joy her partner had shown the last time she had seen the couple together. A fear began to radiate within, sudden realization of the previous night. Had Mary herself inadvertently caused this? All that bound-up energy, that edgy nervousness in Marshall… what had he said? _The heart wants what the heart wants… and mine has always wanted you._

Mary felt ill; she could not be responsible. No; no way. This weight was not hers to bear; she couldn't handle it now, not that guilt. Not on top of everything else.

Shae studied her feet for a moment, attention drifting up until it search out upon the lake for a sight upon which to light.

"Well… _I _broke up with _him_." Tears formed and fell with rapid intent, Shae swiping at them with vengeance, mumbling about stupid hormones. "Sunday night."

This explained Marshall's strangely quiet mood Monday, his touchiness Tuesday after range when she – well, when they had had their tête-à-tête. Recollections shaken off, Mary concentrated on the streaked face before her. She decided to ask outright.

"Whhhyyy…?" she hedged, unsure the sense in asking, unable to refrain.

"Mary, I…" she began. A small choked sound eeked out, but then Shae drew a deep breath and continued, determined to cleanse herself of some tightly-held pain.

"I thought I understood… you… and Marshall…" Mary blanched, a sense of shame robbing blood from her face. Shae did not appear to notice, however, and continued with little more than a sniffle and occasional lip-chewing.

"But what I thought I knew and what reality is… My God, Mary. It was horrible." Another place and time took Shae's mind, and Mary could only watch the reliving play across her face. "I watched it all play out on the news. He didn't tell me where he was going or what he was doing, just that there was an issue with work. But it was on the news. Right after he left. And I knew – I just _knew_ that's where he'd gone. And for hours, all I could do was sit there, eyes glued to that screen, praying to _God_ he came out of it alive, safe and sound. Then they'd said two officers had gotten shot – one was a marshal. And for a few terrifying minutes I wondered if it was Marshall balancing that line between life and –"

Shae's words cut off abruptly with a choked inhalation, words unable to be spoken. Mary forced an outward breath; it had nothing to do with Marshall's confession last night. No; it was Shae's plunge into the stark world of life with a deputy marshal, and the violent uncertainty that came with that choice. A part of her heart broke for the girl; it wasn't a love meant for everyone.

Shae went on, fighting sobs threatening. Either out of pregnancy endocrines or stress or simply a bad day, they were there, battling for dominance and nearly – Mary was sure – winning. Southern stubbornness held on, though, and with only the occasional glance at Mary for reassurance (for what, exactly?), she continued.

"But then they'd said it had been before the media coverage, and Marshall had just left home when I'd turned it on." Deep breath, another back of hand to her damp eyes. Mary remained quiet; there was nothing for her to say.

"Knowing what he did for a living – in theory – was fine. I was fine with that. But now… now I understand just what a life with him would be like. I can handle the crazy hours; it's the unpredictability with his _life_ that scares the living hell out of me! Mary," she said, finally looking directly at the marshal. "I love him more than I can say, but I know that because I do, I couldn't handle it if something happened to him. I want – _need_ a man I can count on to come home at night, to me and the baby. Not someone I live in constant fear of his superiors or partner coming to the door, instead, telling me he's not coming home ever again.

"To jump every time his phone rings, worrying if he's walking into a hostage situation or some fugitive who wants so badly to not go back to prison that he'd take everyone with him…. I just can't _do_ that." With that the dam broke, and Shae's tears fell in deluge, body shook with fatigue and racking sobs. And Mary, in a moment she might not ever understand, sat and wrapped her arms in fierce protection around the young woman who had held Marshall's happiness off Mary's unknowing shoulders. She shushed and soothed and stroked chestnut hair, and wished all the while she could have saved this woman the pain of this life's lesson.

**-o-**

Shadows cast by security lights filtering softly through her window cycled with the languid circle of the ceiling fan. Bright syncopation flashed in turn, dry thunder following in dull tease. Mary stared unseeingly at the patterns above, instead seeing the images she attempted to force from consciousness to sub. Strains all too familiar now enveloped her, the room, the night. Plaintive sonata, beseeching for the dream that had haunted her for months, begging a version to take root. She wanted the fantasy, needed to dream it again. It was her escape, her own personal Walkabout. Quest. Vision. Mary wanted answers, guidance… something.

But she did not dream of Marshall that night, nor of a belly heavy with his child. There was only the sweltering heat of a night fraught with dark promise.


End file.
